When You're Strange
by inkspiration
Summary: Formerly 'Hipsters and Businessmen'. Craig has the endowment of absolute flawlessness, and Tweek really, really digs it. Creek.
1. Routine

The razor's dull buzz is almost calming. I make sure not to nick Bebe's ear as I give her the desired cut, her long wavy hair falling around the chair like a golden ring. Sweat collects behind my plastic headband as another car passes us.

"You know, you should really consider cutting hair somewhere that isn't a parking garage," the blonde points out, inspecting her lavender-colored nails. They're pretty but long, and a bit frightening, like she could just claw my eyes out right here and now if I didn't cut her hair perfectly. To be honest, that's a lot of pressure.

Making sure the undercut is just fuzzy enough, I pull back slightly, leaning down to inspect it. "Like where?" I ask, making sure to keep my jaw loose. Mom told me this morning that I grind my teeth too much, and that it's not good for my health. I try to stay as healthy as possible, because I really don't want to die early. I don't want to be old either, though.

Shrugging her thin shoulders, I see the corner of a tattoo sticking out of her Quizno's shirt collar. Her voice drags my eyes back up, and I instantly feel rude for staring near _that_ area. "I don't know, your place or something?" Oh, good. She doesn't seem to mind.

"I don't ask for much, and this is more of a hobby, dude." I click the button on the razor off and look through my black messenger bag to reveal a hand held mirror, giving the pretty girl a view of herself.

Her blue eyes brighten when Bebe looks in the mirror, her mouth spreading into a grin. The shaved part of her head is darker, and I assume her hair is bleached a bit. Still, this makes it more noticeable, and my small yet strong ego is convinced I'll have more customers soon. Today, I've gotten a good amount. Three isn't much, but not many people trust a crazy seventeen year old in a garage with their precious hair until they see some of the work he's done.

Hair is beautiful because it helps you express yourself. It's what someone notices; it shows a little about the wearer's personality. When they shove it under a greasy baseball cap, you know they're either lazy or stuck in the grunge days. When it's so straight it borders obsessive-compulsive, you can tell they care way too much. Right now, mine is a shining wheat-gold, bleached from the sun. I've let it grow out a bit. It doesn't quite reach my shoulders; not yet. Though it sticks up in all directions either way, I usually maintain it with a headband, though it sometimes looks good on its own. Today I'm not so lucky, so I snatched one of my mom's before heading off to work this morning.

Bebe throws her arms around me and laughs happily. "Thanks! It's so cool," she says with a smile. She pays me the thirty dollars for the cut and she's off in a flash.

I don't expect to have any more customers, so I gather my tools and shove them in my bag. Before leaving, I hoist my bag over my shoulder, not bothering to clean up the mess of curly blonde hair on the cement. I'm pretty sure the homeless have found some use for it or something. I retrieve my white phone from the pocket of similarly white jeans and check the time. I never really get any texts or calls. My mom thinks I have no use for it, but I really need it as a watch and the music I have on this little device keeps me sane. Well, as sane as I can get with ADHD, paranoia, insomnia and 'mild' schizophrenia. I tuck Bebe's cash away in the pocket from which I just retrieved my phone.

I plug the Captain America themed ear phones into my clock/MP3, and turn on some happy love song with a lot of piano. Now, I'm not going to lie (partly because I'm a _horrific _liar); I really do want love, but I've never been able to find somebody I really wanted. Either my hormones are uninterested, or I'm destined to end up with a cat. That's okay though, because I've got bigger things on my mind: work and school. Plus, I've already got two jobs, and I cut hair on the side.

I exit the garage and make my way to my father's store, Tweak Bros. It's different than before. South Park has changed a lot…let me explain.

When I turned twelve, they decided to make this area they call "The Enlightenment, by Drenner." It's pretty much this outdoor shopping center, with townhouses and high rises built all around and above the shops, which include cafes, clothing stores (mostly designer) and plenty of bars and bistros. There's this clear part right in front of one of the hotels; a large, short cut field of green grass with a few fountains. Sometimes bands will play live music there, or a few artists will throw together a small art gallery with paintings and jewelry.

The whole mall is located right behind Main Street. It's the most expensive area in South Park. When my father's business finally beat out Harbucks, he opened up another store, here, in The Enlightenment. Our small yellow townhouse is right above it, so I've got to push past hipsters and frazzled customers just to get to my own room. It's not bad, but sometimes I just want to live in a normal home again. Kyle and Ike Broflovski live in the house beside me, even though I'm pretty sure that they could afford one of the bigger, fancier, taller high rises, like the one Craig Tucker lives in.

Tweak Bros does well enough, but mom doesn't have a job and spends money like mad on my medication and appointments. I work two jobs simply because I like to work, not because we need the extra money. Still, it's somewhat nice having a little extra cash. Most of the kids my age live in the same houses they've had since we were in pre-school together. Along with Kyle and Craig, Jenny lives here, as well as the Neal family. I don't like Millie, but Flora sometimes brings me good tips.

I walk in step to the song as I make my way to Urban Outfitters, which means I'm walking pretty fast. I always walk fast, though, and I usually don't realize it until I've lost Jenny in the crowded halls of our high school. "Damn," I murmur as the realization hits me. School starts in a month. I get the first two periods off for my morning shift at Harbucks, so it's not that bad. The downside is that I have to stay late afterhours, meaning I can't cut hair in the afternoons like I have been.

Evening approaches as I stand outside of my third and final job, the one with the most out of control hipster infestation I've ever seen: Urban Outfitters.

Here I go.

_I'm_ a hipster too.

I know, it's disgusting, but I can't help it. I work at a dimly-lighted coffee shop and wear strange clothes and listen to music that's _way _out of the ballpark, and I enjoy myself. Hey, you can't please everyone. And here's the worst part - I have a Mac.

Cue horror music, I know, I really am sorry. Give me some credit, though; at least I don't wear those too-large nerd glasses.

I pull open the heavy doors to the air conditioned store and sigh, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Behind the counter stands Jenny, her purple and black hair curled 20's style, sporting bright red lipstick and a tight black dress. I have a feeling there's a theme.

"Hey, Roxie Hart," I call teasingly. I approach the counter and lean across it, stretching out like a cat.

"Get your sweaty-ass pits off of the counter this instant!" She rolls up the old paperback copy _Hatchet_ she's reading and smacks me on the head with it. The small ridges of my headband poke my skull uncomfortably, and I cringe. "Ouch," I mumble with a mock hurt expression. She rolls her eyes.

I push myself up and take off my headphones, deciding to listen to Bright Eyes on the store speakers. Right now, there's only a girl wearing a cross country t-shirt and running shoes nervously fondling the scarves and a group of loud pre-teens speaking rapidly in Spanish around the knickknacks.

Walking behind the counter, I snatch for my name tag under the shelf of random reject wallets and pin it onto one of my favorite oversized tank tops. I like it because it shows the sleeve of tattoos running up my right wrist and almost completely down to my collarbone. I've got the word 'PARANOID' written in a scrawling font on my chest. My dad took me to get them all, and my mom said they were beautiful when she saw them. My parents are either carefree or as insane as I am, or as I suspect, both. I love them more than anything in the world, even if they dragged me here from my childhood home.

Jenny and I chat idly about The Exorcist and red foxes, help the cross country girl find her size in pale flats, and finally tell the group of kids to leave if they're not going to purchase anything. This makes them throw the "Brilliant Ideas Notebook" and a lighter on the counter. I'm worried about selling them anything they could possibly make fire with but Jenny tells me to anyways. A few more customers come in; Shelly Marsh sneers at me as she picks at the cardigans in the back room. Kenny shuffles in and immediately picks out the "Sex Kittens" shirt, which is on sale and originally meant for a girl, and seems excited about buying it. No questions are asked, but I do talk to him a bit about how summer school is going, and try to make out his muffled words behind his signature parka hoodie.

It's a considerably average day. I'm enjoying myself a bit. And then _he_ walks in.

When I say he, I mean Craig Tucker.

Now, the name probably means nothing to anyone normal, but I'm Tweek Tweak. I'm not normal, _at all_. I hear voices at night and I take pills for just about everything and I've got wacky hormones that make me shout out for no reason. Hell, my name is _Tweek_ _Tweak, _for God's sake.

Craig and I used to kinda-sorta be friends. In elementary school, we would hang out in class and during lunch and sometimes go to each other's houses. But in middle school, Craig went through something really weird. None of us knew why, but he changed. He shoved Token so hard into one of the lockers that the poor kid's temple bled for the whole period. He called Clyde stupid so many times the boy snapped and walked away, not to return to school for three days.

The black raven that is Craig was finally left to himself, and I haven't seen him smile since then. Today is no different. The stoic boy enters the store with a downturned smirk, his younger sister trailing behind him. Both look generally angry. They have sharp cheekbones and straight eyebrows and cold eyes. They give me the chills, Ruby especially, which is silly because she's only thirteen. Yet, she looks so much older; both the siblings tower over six feet.

A preteen girl is making me go pale as a ghost. I told you I was messed up.

Craig balances his phone between his shoulder and his ear as Ruby goes to look for clothes. He inspects the paintings for sale with a roll of his ice blue eyes, and I officially convince myself that I might be able to shrink into Jenny if I try hard enough.

"If looks could kill..." she starts, shaking her head with a laugh, curls bouncing. I can tell she isn't bothered in the least by the siblings, but they're just so spooky to me, with their expensive Holsten and Fendi. "God, that boy hasn't changed a bit since the fourth grade," she mumbles as she ducks down to retie her shoe. I turn and examine the expensive phone cases we keep behind the counter. I want to tell her that he has, by a lot.

Looking over my shoulder at the boy, I notice his scowl has gotten deeper, making a crease appear between his thin, dark eyebrows. I can't hear what he's saying, but his hands are moving rapidly and his voice is low but fevered. He seems to add in a threat before he hangs up, shoving the device into his pocket roughly.

"Ruby, hurry the _fuck_ up!" he calls out, glaring in her direction while she searches through the trench coats. Her only response is a lifted middle finger before she continues to browse the rack. Jenny pops back up next to me and rests her elbows on the counter. She pops her gum.

And then-

"_Jenny_ _Simon_." His nasally voice practically drips with poison. He approaches with a smirk on his face. This is all too familiar. This is the Craig we all came to know in junior high. I said he never smiled because his sardonic sneers aren't any more than a scowl. She scans him up and down with a raised eyebrow, the piercing looking painfully stretched.

"That's my name." She gives him a cold smile, and I make myself look busy by folding the try-on-but-don't-get clothes for the fourth time. Fold, flip, fold, fold. I'm pretty much a master at this by now.

The aroma of expensive cologne is overwhelming. "I think 'loose bowels' suits you more. Tell me, would you like a cupcake? I can get you one." Damn, Craig has the memory of an elephant. I feel the need to defend my only friend, but I know I'll only make a fool out of myself.

I feel a cold hand grip my arm. I cry out a jump. Jenny's hand is clenched so tight her nails dig into the skin, leaving four crescent moons on my inked wrist. Her face is bright red. That incident had given her suicidal thoughts. It was terrible. It was unmentionable, but he had brought it up.

Something in her eyes frightens Craig. His eyes travel from her to me, and the smug look disappears. His mouth momentarily forms an _oh_ shape as he studies my face.

"Hey," he says.

Shit! Oh god, this is too much pressure. I wipe my free hand on my pants. My mouth feels dry. I run my tongue across my lips to wet them. He raises a groomed eyebrow.

"Oh. Um. Hi. Jesus..." I croak. I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. That was a dumb greeting. I should be on the offensive for his making fun of my friend, but I just can't seem to fight, ever. Except for boxing, which I do in my room when I'm mad, but I don't get mad that much. Nope, no fighting for Tweek.

He reaches forward rests his hand is on my bony shoulder. Instantly, I tense up and whimper. Shit, now I feel like a fool. Simple touches shouldn't frighten me as much as they do. Actually, they don't. But his...

I'm shaking.

"You look different," he says. I notice that he isn't scowling as deeply, and I feel a little better, although his expression almost seems more eerie.

Jenny slams her palms down on the counter, smiling cruelly at her own joke, and bats her fake, feather tipped eyelashes. "Wow! Tweek goes to school with you, and you haven't noticed him a bit? That seems perfectly fine, you apathetic shit bag!" Her voice is sarcastic, and her teeth are bared like an animal's. The Tucker boy's eyes linger on me for a second before he drops his hand and looks at Jenny.

His mouth grows into a tight line, and his eyes narrow, "I'm in the senior class, remember?" Jenny frowns. Jesus... I knew Craig was smart, but I never realized he was a whole grade above me. I haven't noticed him either, I want to tell Jenny, but I don't because he's still there.

"Oh, big man, aren't you?" she rolls her eyes, "Tweek was your friend until your sorry ass ditched him_. _Do you _remember _that?"

Before he can reply, Ruby is back, holding a white skull design muscle shirt and tight jeans with red and gold and black in some kind of fancy pattern. I tell her the total, $70.99, and Craig pays with his Platinum Card. Jenny fumes as she folds the clothes. I take them and carefully put them in the navy UO bag. I'm reaching out to Ruby with it when Craig takes it instead. He grabs my hand for a second; looks up and locks eyes with me. I feel myself shaking again and my free hand goes to check my pocket for my bottle of Adderall. Slowly, he drags his long, bony fingers from mine, handing Ruby the bag.

He only looks away after Ruby nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. I don't know what kind of job Thomas has, but it must pay a fortune if they can afford the kind of things they wear and the red sports car out front that's Craig's alone. Catherine's out of the question - she's been missing since 2010.

His eyes sweep over Jenny. He says "nice tits" and turns on his heel with Ruby in tow. Before he exits, he looks back.

"And Tweek?"

"Oh Jesus! Y-Yeah?" I ask, fishing my bottle of meds out of my pocket.

"...Nice tats."

Jenny curses under her breath, her fists clenched by her side as she watches the Tucker siblings leave. As Jenny grumbles to herself and goes to clear out the dressing room, I smile, just a bit. I don't know what's going to happen, but I think I might like it.

* * *

**Edit: The second half of this chapter was fixed! Expect the second one soon! **

**Thank you, internet cat. She is the epitome of perfect, and my editing slave. I love you, baby. ;w; **

**Please review!**


	2. Thursday, I don't give a damn

Cold countertops are my favorite thing in the whole world.

Actually, not really; but they are right now. I rest my head on this very thing at Tweak Bros, and it's like an oasis. The heat outside is becoming unbearable, and making coffee for myself and the few other freaks who still like drinking hot beverages in the middle of July doesn't help the temperature. Behind me, Filmore Anderson is curled up on the floor, snoring and getting drool all over the tiles I just polished. Business is slow today, so it's perfectly fine for the guy to take a nap. I don't even think he's old enough to really work, but dad hired him anyways. The arrangement's fine as long as he doesn't know I make more than him.

The bell connected to the door jingles. I lift my head from my nice haven and readjust the Tweak Bros cap on my head. The first word that pops into my head when I see that dumb replica of the Red Racer sports car is _goddamnit_. Craig has been showing up around me for the last three days. The first time at Urban Outfitters was okay, because it was a coincidence, but now he's popping up around corners everywhere I turn. The day after I saw him first, he sat in a booth at Tweak Bros, writing something for four hours until his hands were stained with ink and a stack of paper towered over his shoulder, covered in his neat handwriting. Yesterday, he caught up to me after my first shift and brought me to La Finca for a lunch break.

To be honest, I really do like hanging out with him again, but I'm scared. What if he freaks and does what he did to Token and Clyde, to me? I was lucky enough to just fade out the first time. I didn't try to help him get over it in any way, like the others did. But I think Craig is just happy to have a friend again. I know that, yet I still try to avoid him; it makes me feel like a total shithead.

The person who enters the store is not Craig, but Thomas. His eyes seem tired, and his tie is on sideways. I always figured he went to work earlier than everyone else in the world. High paying jobs start early, right? I frowned as I tried to figure out why he'd take Craig's car.

Anyway, the routine words come from my mouth. They're too fast and I even squeak a bit, but it comes out audible enough. "Hi, welcome to Tweak Bros, what can I get for you today?" I've gotten better at speaking the simple phrase since I started here. Before, I pretty much said it in one noise, confusing everyone who entered. The man orders an Earl Grey in that same monotone, nasally voice every Tucker seems to own. I get him the tea, being careful not to step on the sleeping Filmore. I bring it to him, my shaking increased tenfold at this point.

When he pays me, my "thanks" doesn't even sound like the English language. I'm not sure why I'm freaking out so much. The dimly lit coffee shop is usually calming, and I'm more in my element here than anywhere else. But I've always been uncomfortable around Thomas, though I'd hoped it had faded since fourth grade. Like Craig, he has that 'I don't care' attitude that scares the shit out of me.

Something seems to be off about the car outside and the ugly red marks on the pads of his fingers. He doesn't even acknowledge that I'm the kid who lived three doors down for forever. A chill runs down my spine when Thomas gives me a tiny smile and walks back outside to the scorching weather. He doesn't even seem fazed by the heat. He takes a few sips of his tea and stoops down to the driver's seat. I don't take my eyes away until the car is completely out of sight, and for whatever reason, I'm shaking harder than before.

"Filmore," I mutter, crouching down to shake his shoulder. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at me with a confused expression.

"What?" he asks while he gets to his feet unsteadily. He rolls his shoulders back and adjusts his cap. He has that 'grunge' look that one would expect to find on the cover of a 90's fashion magazine. Where his hair used to be a clean, neat faux-hawk, it's grown out and flipped up at the edges, looking unkempt in a way that drives girls wild. He plays the guitar and sings Veruca Salt songs and Beck, yet he's also a star football player. It's basically two stereotypes mashed together to create the weirdo that is Filmore Anderson.

Picking at my nails, I avoid eye contact. "Do you think Thomas Tucker is actually a murderer?" I don't even know where that came from, but it explains some shit in my head. Craig found a dead body in his bathroom and he went crazy in middle school. That must be it, I rationalize.

"Oh god, can you just shut up about Craig and fuck him already? The sexual tension hurts." He imitates dying by leaning across the counter and coughing.

"Ew! Don't get your germs on the counter!" I frantically search the supply closet for Lysol and a rag to clean his gross spittle off of the place we serve food and drinks.

Rolling his eyes, he shoves his hands in his pockets. "Whatever. Why do you think Craig's dad is a killer?" he asks, cocking a thick eyebrow. He really should consider man-scaping.

"Cause he just came in here through your little nap thing... And... Oh Jesus, that man is scary as hell!" I say a bit too loudly. I'm not supposed to talk about the customers at work. I bite my lip and look around, but don't see any signs of my parents.

Filmore walks around to the pastry display case and gets himself a scone. I give him a look, and he places the amount of money in the cash register before taking an obnoxiously large bite in front of me. "Well," he begins with his mouth full. I shudder at the bits of food spewing from his face. Yuck. "The man has always looked scary. You know, you talk about the Tuckers a lot. Especially lately. Are you and Craig lovers or something?"

"Dude, shut up!" I growl, crossing my arms. He has an immediate suspicion that I'm gay because I wear dress shoes at least once a week. Really, I just think bodies are just bodies and I can wear whatever I think is attractive. And so what if Craig is attractive as well, with blue eyes and a nice jaw? Anyone would think that. I've only been talking about him because he's been on my tail every day lately! "Craig doesn't even have romantic feelings, if he has feelings at all. He _told_ me."

That was true. The boy had explained to me why he has never had a girlfriend on our way to La Finca. He hated romance. Which led me to asking if he was a virgin, in to which he became silent, then asking me if I was one.

I'm not.

People assume that no one would touch the crazy lonely kid, but Kenny did. I'm pretty sure I was high off my ass for once in a blue moon and he was horny as hell. I didn't like it.

"Okay, but all you talk about now is him and/or things having to do with him," he pointed out, taking another bite of his treat.

"He's my childhood friend who's suddenly back in my life, man. How can I not? I need to-"

"You can shut up about it!"

I want to tell him that I can't. Mr. Mackey told me that I always need to get my thoughts out, because if I keep them all bottled up, I'll have more visions when I'm alone, and that can lead to _bad_ things. But instead, I study the ink on my arm with a slight frown. "I _need_ to talk to someone."

He shuts up at that. He knows about my _condition_, but apparently the little dick forgot. He's pretty inconsiderate; it must be the jock part of him. Or maybe the little Kurt Cobain muse stuck in his mind. Polishing off his pastry, he rolls his eyes for the billionth time. "_Okay_. But I'm not your babysitter, and frankly, I don't really care about what's happening with the not-so-jolly green giant that's named Craig Tucker."

"Why do you think he's even talking to me?" I ask, ignoring his comment.

"I don't know. Because he's got a fetish for psychos with tattoos?" he guesses sarcastically, shrugging. I let out a sigh and shift the conversation elsewhere, to where he's talking about how much of a bitch Flora Neal is. I tell him about Millie in my Algebra 2 class last year, and he goes on to rant about her whorish tendencies as well. Our more positive connection comes from gossip and hatred. It's kind of pathetic, but beggars can't be choosers.

Soon enough, the shift is over, and I can finally turn my apron in to Ike, who works here too. Filmore and Ike flip each other off on the way out, and the athlete gives me a little wave before he hops on his bike and rides off to the Music & Arts a few blocks away.

I really don't feel like cutting hair today. It's too hot to work in a garage; the heat reflects off the cement with the power of a thousand suns. I decide to walk to plaza with the Free People outlet, expensive high-rises, Straits, that one fancy bistro, and the vegetarian restaurant with good Margareta pizza surrounding it. There's no art show or jewelry being sold today, but a pretty Asian girl in a lavender sun dress soothingly strums a guitar by the entrance to a mall.

Kevin McCormick, who works at the _Sweet_ down near the Neal residence is reading a thick novel (he's smarter than people give him credit for.) and drinking something dark and probably caffeinated from a clear Subway cup on the short grass. There's a couple on a bench, their hands locked.

I sit down by the fountain and I scan my eyes over the Fifty Shades of Grey, trying to process if I'm reading porn or not. I'm kind of distracted by the thoughts of Thomas Tucker and sound of the pretty girl singing "Virgin Suicide" softly into the microphone. I'm about to open up my Avengers lunchbox and snack on Twizzlers and Havarti cheese when there's a too-familiar voice right by my ear.

"Fifty Shades of Grey?"

"Jesus Christ!" It comes out like a wail and I drop the book on the stone path in front of me. I turn around and stare at Craig, who has taken a comfortable seat on the side of the fountain, his too-long legs in the water. He's got hairy legs. I didn't notice before, but now he's wearing what appears like cut-off women's skinny jeans. He looks like a male model.

He snorts and rolls his eyes, kicking the water slightly, making the wasted coins flutter in the clear liquid. "You know that book is for horny old women, right?"

"It's…interesting," is all I say, retrieving the novel from the floor and dusting the dirt from its explicit pages. Craig scoots over to sit closer to me but keeps his legs in the water, so we're beside each other, but facing opposite ways. He leans his head back to expose his long neck. All his limbs are long, really- arms, legs, neck; short torso, though. He's also got hair so dark it's almost blue, and olive-colored skin.

I've taken way too much notice. Mom would say it's an 'artist's eye' kind of thing, but I know I'm developing feelings for him already. I'm not going to be all cliché and in denial and spend my time pondering over it, when I know I already am. That's just how it is.

His bony fingers pluck it from my grasp, and he begins to scan over the pages.

"Ooh. The _clitoris_!"

"Shut up!"

He's said the vulgar word so loud that the Asian singer has stopped her song to look at us. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I cover my face with my hands while Craig continues to laugh.

Wait. Laugh?

Quickly, I pull away my hands and look over at him. He's still reading. His cheekbones are more defined now that he's actually _smiling_. I stare at his mouth, where dimples are obvious and he's missing his front right tooth. I wonder how that happened. Seeing him smile makes me smile, and he turns the page, continuing to snicker and snort at the description as I look over his shoulder.

Before he gets carried away, the boy shuts it and hands it back to me, losing my page in the process. I don't comment that he does while he turns around, his legs dripping wet with water and a bit of a dyed green tint covering his calves.

"Do you even like porn and that other shit they do in there?" he inquires, cocking an eyebrow, as per usual.

Shrugging my too-thin shoulders, I answer with, "Not really. I just like how they write it."

He looks me over and brings up a hand. For a second, I think he's about to cup my face and kiss me, but he just wipes a spot of sweat from my temple, and then rubs his hand on his shorts.

"I like your pants," I comment, blinking up at him.

"Conne Garcon," he explains, thumbing at the pink bow earring in his right ear with a smile. Oh. I didn't notice that before. Wow, I like his smile a lot. "You know she had a whole Red Racer theme going on?"

His eyes stay stoic and icy, but his face seems to light up. Designers and Red Racer seems to be his Achilles' heel. Even yesterday, when he was ranting about how much he hated Ruby's attitude, I brought up the cartoon and he calmed down instantly. It was rather interesting to see the transformation. One moment, he was frowning and talking so fast his mouth was a blur, and the next he was completely monotone once more, but with a mysteriously happy air to it.

"Speaking of Red Racer, I saw your dad this morning." Craig tenses, then nods. "Why did he have your car?"

"He's taking it to a car show," his voice is robotic and matter-of-fact, and the light in his face disappears. I nod as if I understand his shift in mood and he thumbs at his earring more.

The conversation has obviously taken an awkward shift. Something mentioned was a touchy subject: either his car, or his father, or his father with his car, or his car with his father, I don't know, but whatever it is, it's making me uncomfortable, so I quickly decide to change the subject.

"Is your car a Shelby?"

He perks up and nods enthusiastically before explaining about the model and engine and seats. I'm not really paying attention to his words or description of the tires but more on the rapid movements of his free hand, the other one never leaving his earring. I can't tell if it's a stick on or real, but I don't question him and offer him a Twizzler, which he accepts with a hasty 'thanks' before returning to his seemingly favorite subject.

After a solid twenty minutes, Craig's talking ceases, and he seems confused for a moment. "What's wrong?" I inquire, feeling immediately inconsiderate after talking with my mouth full.

"I…I haven't spoken this much to someone in a long time," he says and shrugs. Before I can say anything, he looks over at me and places his fist on my forehead, like some sort of wayward secret handshake. "It's kind of refreshing." I smile slightly and nod in agreement before he stands up to his full six-foot-four height and stretches his hands to the sky, wiping some sweat from his neck. He's hot…really hot.

And it's so _frustrating_. My hormones are bitches.

I close the tin lunchbox and tuck my porn under my armpit before standing up as well, looking up at the towering boy. We chat idly a bit more before he glances at his watch - not a cell phone, a watch - and announces that he has to go to Ruby's cross country meet. A small pat on my inked shoulder is all he gives me before walking off in the general direction of his house. He's more cheery than he has been in the past few days, and perhaps even the past few years.

And, hey, it's making me happy too.

* * *

At home, I'm considerably less shaky from the incident this morning with Thomas. In fact, I've got a noticeably calmer air altogether. The shift at UO went by fast with lots of business, and I was pumped from the lack of sweating my ass off in the garage. Even though I stumbled with a few pieces of clothing and my twitching made a surprise visit, it wasn't nearly as bad as me imagining that every man over the age of forty was 'out to get us'.

That's usually me off of my medicine, but the whole summer, I've been taking it like the good boy I am deep down.

I lied. I'm not a good boy deep down. I mean, I like a extremely rich guy who's also extremely asexual and my parents shove so many pills down my throat I hardly have time to think. Not that I should think. Thinking is bad, and so is imagination. Keeping yourself occupied is all the rage when you're a psycho.

At the moment, I'm curled up in my mother's lap watching Malcolm in the Middle. It's a weird embrace, but I'm honestly comfortable and we never really grew out of the cuddle sessions we had when I was eight. I don't care how weird it is, it's my private time, and I can love my mother if I want. Some voice in the back of my head tells me I'm absolutely childish and maybe a bit creepy, but I push it away and laugh heartily at something Reese says.

A few minutes into the show, Dad enters. His "Mr. Tweak" name tag hanging a bit crookedly, but he has a smile on his face. The constant scent of coffee would be overwhelming to most people, but not to us Tweaks.

The usual banter my parents exchange occurs; mom talks about her trip to the store and dad explains how the customers were today. He's the manager at the first Tweak Bros down on Main Street, not the one here, which is run by a bigger Indian woman named Taz. He gets a lot more profit and customers than the one in The Enlightenment.

Soon, the conversation shifts from dinner- sushi, which is now peacefully resting in my digestive system - to me.

"So, son, how was your day?"

I give him the usual. "_Ah_!"

"That's good."

I want to tell him about Craig, but he doesn't seem too interested. Coming out of the closet to them was pretty simple. It was similar to that scene in that one movie. You know.

_"Do you want anything?"_

_"I'm gay."_

_"That's good, so any burgers or something?"_

It didn't happen exactly like that, but I was about fourteen at the time, and I walked home with my head down and my shaking uncontrollable. I couldn't get the door open because of my hand's movement, so I just rested against it and tried to scream at the voices to shut up. Eventually, my mom opened the door, and found me. This is how it went.

"...Tweek? Oh my, another episode?"

"Gah! I-I think I'm gay!" The funny part was that I didn't even mean for that _little_ slip up to happen. I was just trying to let out the most important secret the voices were urging me tell someone.

"Yeah, we know. Now come inside and have some bagels."

Yeah, we know. Have some _bagels_.

I began to laugh after that. Not some kind of maniac's laughter, but a genuine laugh. I pulled myself to my feet before walking inside and going to bed. I can hardly sleep most nights, but I was exhausted, and my parents accepted me, so why not? I had no worries that day. I don't very much anymore.

Anyway, the main reason I don't tell them about anyone I like is because they always seem to frown upon it. They think I'm too complicated for a partner at this age. They always say it's just a crush, and maybe the one with Craig is; but I don't want it to be. Then again, I didn't want it to be with any of the other guys I liked, yet I'd be in a bad place if they did end up being more than crushes. I don't make good decisions.

Soon enough, the show ends and I trudge to the bathroom, brush my hair and teeth, wash my face; all the basics. I flop down on my Captain America sheets. I have a _huge_ thing for Chris Evans. Ugh, I really am like a horny old lady aren't I?

I'm so ready to pass out that I ignore the blaring sirens outside and fall asleep.

* * *

**I KNOW THIS IS SO OVERDUE AND YOU CAN ALL BEAT ME UP.**

**I meant to upload this a whole _week_ ago, but I just got so distracted with the new season coming out ("This is cum.") and school and ahhh. I'm so sorry. I really appreciate all the reviews so far, though. You're all great!**

**Please leave more, my lovelies. Kisses and hugs and all that jazz.**

**Huge thanks to the lovely internet_cat who's going to marry me and edits all my stories. You little editor slave, you.**

**Any critique, advice, suggestions or comments? Any feedback is _so_ appreciated. Thanks!**

**I'm now off to watch the new episode! Honey BooBoo and obesity and all that. I'm excited.**


	3. You're a star

**Hi my babies! I've actually had this done about three weeks ago, but my loyal editing slave didn't get to edit it until tonight. Oh well. Here it is. **

**Note: This chapter is, in fact, in Craig's perspective.**

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People in general are so _annoying_. If it weren't for them, your life would be perfect. After all, you're a good driver, a caring mate, a sensible friend, a nuanced coworker, and, most important of all, you know how to stand in a line without cutting. Yet, you're the kind of person who notices every single annoying thing that every person on the face of this planet does—and you feel like you're the_ only _one! It doesn't matter if it's the tail-gaiting jerk behind you, or the woman screeching into her cell phone about leftovers at a volume that could possibly break the sound barrier, or the waiter who thinks he's God's gift and is acting like you should be serving _him_. Or maybe, just maybe, it's Stan Marsh and Clyde Donovan and Kyle Broflovski treating you and your sister like you're a child in need. You, the only one in this whole goddamn town, notice these things. And it makes you _sick_. Maybe it would be better if you just didn't pay attention at all, but you don't have the gift of oblivion. You don't know if that's good or bad. Even your bumper sticker agrees: "If you're not angry, you're not paying attention." And even two centuries before the handy-dandy bumper sticker was invented, or even the car, some eighteenth century poet once said ignorance is bliss, and you have no doubt in your mind that it's still true to this day. People just can't learn how to shut their trap, though, and your knuckles are already stained with scars from punching so many people in the goddamn mouth in this lifetime, and you're only seventeen. No one understands that these rambling throngs of impeccable inferiors are the reason you're the cranky, ugly person you are today. Well, that's not true; you'd be ugly even if you _were_ ignorant. Still, whether your concerns are universal (war, pollution, the growing popularity of reality television), minor (telemarketers, stupid pop songs, overpriced coffee), or philosophical (do we even _matter_ in the scheme of things?), you're the only one who seems to even be aware that all of this is pointless, and everyone is going to die eventually. Of course, though, there are those ignoramuses who still believe in fairy tales, otherwise known as religion. And they believe suicide is crime and that raped victims can't get pregnant and that there's some higher power up in the sky. They actually believe that lions and giraffes got on a boat together and played nice, and reproduced the entire animal kingdom with only two of each species. There's a reason our textbooks credit Watson and Crick, and not Joan. And you know you're irrational and angry, like Tinkerbelle. She was only big enough to hold one emotion in her at a time. Even though you're bordering six-foot-five, that's you, and, surprise, surprise, the emotion you carry within you is almost always anger. But that's beside the point. You don't have the power of ignorance; you have your loneliness and your sister and, at one point, your father, and that's enough. How you wish you could knock his tooth out like he did yours. But no one is going to hit the Golden Man, the owner of the only Ford dealership in the whole county of South Park, not even you. You should be appreciative, everyone says. You've got a Shelby Mustang, you live in the most beautiful building in this whole town, you're blessed with beautiful genes, and you've got designer clothes. And I know this. I'm not stupid, I know these things.

I know there's good in my dad. I can see it in his eyes after he pummels me. He'll stare at me sadly for the next few days until he apologizes in a rush and takes me to buy more Louis Vuitton clothes because he remembers they're my favorite.

But he went too far about… three hours ago, nearing. The man was drunk, and I was awake past my usual lateness. Personally, I was feeling pretty good. Maybe it was because I was having a smoke or the lingering feeling of having a friend again still stuck with me from earlier. I was lounging on the couch in the main living space. It's not technically a living room; only a bar separates this space from the kitchen, and all the doors on the left wall lead to each of our bedrooms and the one bathroom Ruby and I share. Despite the space being considerably small, there's no denying the home is beautiful. A large window takes up the majority of one of our walls, displaying a pretty stunning view of the mountains and city. Our furniture is modern and sleek, with sharp edges and dark colors that greatly contrast with the stark white walls and carpet. Most people would find it intimidating or too orderly, but to me, it is home (ha-ha.). Sure, the small, grey house I lived in before the Drenner establishment was put up was nice, but I never felt attached to it like I do to this one.

Anyway, let's return to the previous subject: how my dad went too far.

Stretched out in a languid sprawl across the leather sofa, in only boxers with re-runs of Terrance and Phillip on the television, I tapped the ashes from my second fag onto the carpet with a droll expression on my face. I'm not supposed to do that, and I did plan on cleaning it up, I swear. Dad never got home until late, usually spending his time after work at the bar or with some promiscuous woman until early hours of the morning, so you can envision my surprise when I heard keys jangling in the door at a mere one thirty.

But he came home earlier than usual, an angry look on his face and a bottle of something cheap looking and obviously alcoholic in his hand. It was a stupid thing to get mad about, and he totally overreacted to the point of extremity. I shouldn't have smoked in the first place, or else I wouldn't be here right now, with all of these annoying people.

I'd sat up, quickly putting out my cigarette on my leg- I was only clad in boxers, as previously mentioned, so the burn in my thigh had hurt more than if I were wearing jeans or thicker material.

"You're smoking?" he barked, stumbling over to the bar and flipping on the light. I turned off the television quickly, standing up, and biting my lip in concern while he approached me, the bottle in his grasp.

"Yes sir." Lying only made the situation worse. Stepping back, I made sure not to look too sarcastic or grumpy. "I'll just go to sl-"

He shut me up with a harsh glare. I knew I was going to be hit, so I relaxed my bones, and breathed in. Then he stopped. Fred Allen was right._"If I could get my membership fee back, I'd resign from the human race_." or something like that. It's never been more true, I realized whenever my dad stopped and stared me straight in my eye, his glazed over maliciously.

The red-headed man took in a long breath, and I felt like I was shrinking beneath his gaze. "You been around that Tweak boy, a lot, huh?" he asked. My chest swelled up with feeling then, queer as that is.

"Yes sir," I repeated myself, nervously eyeing the Jack Daniel's to avoid eye contact with the beast.

"Look-it me, boy," he snapped much too loudly. I cringed at the volume, snapping my eyes up to meet his. "You're straight, 'n' I don't want you spending time near that faggot."

"Yes sir." God, really? Just because Mr. Tweak and dad had some disagreements doesn't mean he has the right to tell me who to hang out with and what to do in my life. I guess I realized this. The thing that got me in this whole mess was a craving to defend Tweek. Even though he'd never hear it, I was chewing the inside of my lip hard enough to break skin, because I wanted to protect him, and I wanted to continue spending time with him_; fucking Tweek_.

"You're not gay."

It started with a cigarette. Then I pushed it. I wanted to stand up for myself for once. No; I needed to. I didn't want any more of this, and I didn't think I'd suffer so much consequence. I bared my teeth, sort of like a rabid animal, and straightened up. "Who says I'm not?"

What I don't understand is why smoking on the sofa led to him thinking I'm gay. I'm pretty sure he just wanted to rip on me for something…anything he can think of usually works for him. He started getting so angry after my grandmother died when I was about thirteen; something about which son she gave her house to or whatever. Self-pity consumed him and he felt like the not-so-favored child. God, who was he, Loki? There is a lot more background I don't know about to this day. Something really scarring happened, having to do with "a miscarriage, a butler, and too many hits of acid," he said vaguely to my mother once. But all he wants to do is make me feel, in his words, "All the pain [he] did growing up." He never said he wanted to hurt me, but I know he did. Plus, since my mother disappeared from the face of the Earth two years ago, he got even angrier, and especially violent. But he also got me a Red Racer replica Shelby. I don't know what runs through his mind all day. The man is insane.

The worst part is that I don't do a thing about it. I just let it happen. I haven't attempted running away, like Ruby did. I don't sit on my room and listen to the All-American Rejects while slashing my wrists. I just let it happen, because I didn't feel it has ever been my place to.

But I just did.

His jaw is clenched, eyes broadened, with eyebrows raised to a painfully high angle. God, I should have run at that moment. I wouldn't be in this mess if I had.

"_Excuse me_?"

Those two words sent chills up my spine, the piqued intonation frightening to even Damien Thorne himself. I'm sure I would have seen no remorse, no pity at all even if he had been sober. Staying silent, I shuffled back out of the danger zone. I didn't, however, let my gaze soften.

He lashed out and grabbed me by the hair on the top of my head. I didn't defend myself, opting to let him attack me, as he always has. My gaze snapped up to meet his, darkening with hatred. There wasn't hesitation before I opened my mouth. Words were poison on my tongue, and they aimed to kill. Who, me or him, I didn't know.

"Just because you didn't get to be what you wanted as a child doesn't mean I can't."

Maybe I'm not exactly a child, but he gets what I mean. I know because his grip tightens, and before I can even process what's happening, I'm lifted into the air, my hair follicles screaming for relief. The silence that followed was strenuously long, despite the cry of pain emanating from my cracked lips. Then I was thrown to the ground. "Don't you dare backtalk me, you bastard!" he sputtered as he spit in my shocked face.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a light boy. I'm not fat, not muscular, but I'm toned enough to raise eyebrows at my true weight. I grunt is my back hits the ground, but I'm up on my elbows in seconds. I wasn't even close to done. Being the smartass I am, I just had to keep running my mouth because I was fueled on adrenaline and teenage hormones. Not for the sake of irritating him—that wasn't a priority, then—but for the benefit for some goddamn self-respect for myself and Ruby. It's so frustrating to realize how bad of a parent he is, and how average of a kid you are. Saying things to protect your friends is normal for most seventeen year olds…so is smoking on the couch.

I didn't try to protect my ribcage from that stupid boot driving into it; once, twice, three times. Piercing him with my eyes, I bit down on my lip as I felt the first bruises forming. Still, I had the audacity to continue my speech, in a growling bark.

"Yeah, go ahead. This will help," I wanted to be intimidating and sarcastic, but it came out in a squeak. His meaty hands enclosed around my thin arms and hoisted me up from the ground. His cruel hand connects with my face, hard. My lip split open, and a stinging mark began to form on my cheek. But that's nothing I wasn't used to. Hysterical, cold laughter bubbled up from me, which seemed to anger him more. "You really think this is going to help? You really do?" It was rhetorical, because like hell he'll answer that. I just needed to get it out.

"Look at yourself. I'm your fucking son," I snapped, my head starting to pound from all of the recently mentioned rough treatment. "You're hurting your fucking son. You know what this is?" I was pinned to the wall, and my back wracked with an ache, but I kept going. "This is illegal, you imbecile! You'll go to _fucking_ _jail_!"

All the noise had awoken Ruby. When she scanned her eyes over the two of us, I, for once, finally saw emotion in my sister's face before she opened her sweet little mouth and decided to speak up too.

"I called the police. I figured someone would have done it already, but apparently not." Even though her voice was matter-of-fact and uncompassionate, fear was pronounced in her eyes. His grip on my prominent rib cage constricted. "They're coming up the stairs now." My head was light and I had no energy whatsoever to continue to dispute. I was hardly aware of the hands slipping from my now bruised sides before my knees hit the carpet. I was covered in a cold sweat, something slick and wet and dark dripping down my temple. Dad was screaming at Ruby, I didn't know what, or why, but before he could even raise a hand, the door was open, some more people were shouting, there were sirens, and I was out cold.

* * *

And that's how I got to where I am now.

The ride to the police station is taken in separate cars. The lights of the buildings in The Enlightenment light up while the sirens wail past the small homes. It's quite chilly out, with small gusts of wind that raise goose bumps over my uncovered body. A small bar fight can be seen from outside the window, and I focus on what appears to be Stuart McCormick punch some redneck in the mouth with great, drunken gusto. It distracts me from my own fight. They want to take me to Hell's Pass, but I refuse and shout and shove my middle finger into their faces before the dumbasses finally get the point. Or maybe not get, but decide to move away before I kick them in the nuts. They lead Ruby and I into one of the cars while dad is taken in handcuffs to the parallel vehicle, still shouting senselessly. This was exactly what I didn't want. I don't want anyone to know because I don't want their pity, but I already see Cartman walking out of one of the townhouses (maybe he was staying at Kyle's) with a video camera in his hand. I make sure to flip him off too before the door is forced shut. My sister sits with me the entire time, holding my hand, which at first I renounce, but ultimately accept. Her long fingers stroked over my own while I stare out the window. She doesn't need this. _I _don't need this.

So here I am, sitting in a dark chair in the brightly lit police station, men in uniforms looking through me and Ruby's files while Stan Marsh, Clyde Donovan and Kyle Broflovski sit across from Ruby and I, concern etched into their stupid faces. One of the cops has this annoying teeth-clicking habit which he apparently doesn't notice. I curl my fingers in agitation, gripping my nails into Ruby's palm and my own thigh. Why can't he just stop that? What pisses me off the most, though, is that despite the fact the three teens even came to a police station at four in the morning just to pity me, is that Clyde is here.

After my verbal abuse to him back in the seventh grade had left the boy in tears, he ignored me completely, slinking away into crowds when I approached him to apologize. In about the ninth grade, he had begun to spend more time with Kyle, Kenny, Stan, and fat-ass-who-shall-not-be-named instead than me. Once, in biology, we were paired up as partners, and the boy had instantly demanded to switch, leaving me with Bebe Stevens. That's okay, though; I'd rather listen to her talk about designer shoes and agree with her totally stereotypical taste in boys than have Clyde drool over what a nucleotide was. Yeah, okay, maybe not, but he _was_ my best friend, and it bothered me so see so much hatred in his eyes. I tried to make amends immeasurable times, but he had always shaken his head and denied anything was left between us.

Also, Stan and Kyle, the dynamic duo, just happened to appear and pity me. As if they talked to me at all. I know, for Stan, it's just up keeping the social status, being the 'good boy' and all. Kyle, I don't mind actually. It just angers me that he has to act like I'm a child in need. God, I'm almost an adult. If this had never happened, I'd only have to put up with it for about a year and then I'd be out. But, no, I decided to smoke a Camel on our two-thousand dollar sofa, because I'm fucking retarded.

So the drabble of, "Are you okay, dude?"'s and "If you need anything, I'm here for you, no matter what"'s is getting really, really tedious, as well as that goddamn stupid _click-click_ of the cop's teeth. No matter what? Alright, I'll keep that in mind when I capture my hostage and take him to Guantanamo Bay to murder him using only a pair of safety scissors and I feel like having a fucking smoothie. You'll be here for me, no matter what, right Clyde? Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms and sit back, sweeping my gaze over them with a scrutinizing countenance.

"I'm fine, really." The words are spoken through a sarcastic tongue, my eyes rolling in annoyance while I rub my heel against the white tiles. Ruby squeezes my knee, glancing up at me with a worried expression, her plump bottom lip squished beneath her white teeth in a look of pure concern.

She opens her mouth and begins in a small, rueful voice. "Craig, these are our housing options." I raise an eyebrow and stare at her in confusion. I must have missed some things when I zonked out. I turn back to the others, who all look hopeful I'll choose them. Except Stan, of course, who looks a bit agitated at this point. I don't blame him; I wouldn't want to deal with me either. Still, Kyle and Clyde keep up the charade, small pieces happy rainbow sunshine beaming from their smiles.

"What?" I ask, a hitch forming between my brows in confusion. "What about dad?"

I know it's stupid, because that man is the bane of my existence, but like hell I'm living with these pricks.

My gaze is avoided by all but Clyde, who gives me a look of concern. It pisses me off. I want to punch him in the mouth and rip that dumb snapback off of his measly head. "You don't know?" he asks.

"No, I don't," I snap, crossing my arms with a pout. Once, Ruby called me a man-baby. I guess I understand what she means now. I kind of like getting my way.

Clyde's hands go up in defense, his expression turning to one of smug annoyance, as per usual. Before I can whine any more, Kyle intercepts with a formal voice. "Your father is doing time for the next few days due to domestic violence." _Well, no shit, Kyle._ "Ruby has asked not to live with him any longer. You're welcome to stay with any of us as well."

Ruby can't decide that! She's fourteen! A growl rises in my throat as I prepare to scold her for her careless actions. I don't get the chance to even question anything before Ruby starts again, grabbing my knee in some sort of assuring grip. "I know there isn't a lot of space," she mutters in an unusually soft voice, "so we'll be living in separate houses."

I've got too many questions and not enough answers, so I ask the first thing on my mind in a bubble of hysteria and trepidation. "We're leaving home?"

It really is a stupid thing to say, but I've got a rather intense devotion to the familiar high-rise. Whenever I lost everything, it was my one sanctuary. No one answers, their perturbed expression turned away from me in shame in a bit of fear (for my sanity, I'm sure). "Then, then what about someone like… a relative or something?" I demand in fear. There's no way, not a _chance_, that I'm spending the rest of my life up until my eighteenth birthday with one of these assholes.

"Do you really want that?" super-Jew asks, with the conventional tone back in his voice. "Do you want to live with a long-term abusive madman?" It's like a harsh slap of reality, to match the one from earlier that busted open my lip; but this one hurts more. What makes me even more upset is the fact that Kyle knows this. Just how much has been leaked about my personal affairs? Why did no one ever do anything about it, if they knew?

I don't answer, and instead stare down at my legs, running a circle around the burn from my smoke with a cold finger. "Do I have to make a decision _right now_?" I ask, with my voice lower and even more blank than usual, if you can imagine that.

Clyde speaks up again, his eyes looking determined. "Well, if it helps to narrow your options, Ruby's staying with me." Good. That, I appreciate. I suppose I should thank Ruby for taking him out of the picture, but I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the crush she's had on him since the fourth grade.

So that leaves me between Stan and Kyle. I really don't like either of them, but Kyle seems more eager to put up with me.

"Wait, before you say anything, let me get one of the officials to make sure you—"

Kyle doesn't get a chance to finish. The door flings open, its ungreased hinges almost masking a human-sounding screech of distress. I'm merely intrigued by whatever new distraction is occurring. But whenever I see a mess of blond hair and an incorrectly-buttoned shirt, my heart does a flip, and I'm not just intrigued; I'm ecstatic.

"Craig! Jesus Christ!" he exclaims, walking in, scanning his fearful eyes over my bruised body. Mrs. Tweak follows behind, her short brown hair lying in waves against her cheekbones, pink fingernails grasped together.

I guess Stan notices my brightened mood, because he looks up from his stupid brown '#stanyourground' bracelet. His dark, unkempt eyebrows raise in satisfaction. "Someone looks happy to see Tweek." A small smirk creases his lips and only then do I realize I'm grinning like a maniac.

"I-I heard about what happened," he starts in a raspy, pusillanimous gasp, his shaking hand pulling at the bottom of his shirt while he shuffles awkwardly to the side. I could really care less about his never-loosening grasp on his mom's hand and that his pajama pants are printed with kittens. "And I heard that Stan and Kyle and Clyde wanted to help—well, not help?" His hand goes from his shirt to his hair, lightly yanking on the strands at the nape of his neck.

Tweek is not pretty. He's got a sharp nose and black eyebrows and too-big of a mouth, but I don't think anyone has ever looked so ravishing before. "I mean, I thought... I don't know. I thought, that maybe, that I could offer what they're—"

Mrs. Tweak lightly pats his shoulder, a small, reassuring smile on his face, similar to Ruby's. By now, the grin on my face has started to hurt. An extremely eccentric, tattooed boy is just what I need. "Honey, if you need a place to stay, we're willing to give you that. Tweek is downright crazy about you."

"Mom!" he whines. Before anyone says anything else, I lift myself from my seat and glance at Ruby. She gives me a knowing smile and hides in her sleeve. Stan and Kyle watch with neutral expressions, but Clyde looks more nervous than I've seen in awhile. Not that I've seen him since I verbally wrung out his brain.

But I'm not thinking about Clyde or abuse or anything when I finally approach Tweek, who's staring up at me in a slightly cautious look of interest. I cup his face with my hands. It's not soft; little dips of acne scar his face and he's got stubble lining his jaw. With his breathing erratic and mine calm, I align his face to the correct angle. I'm kind of compulsively neat. God, why can't he be taller so that this feels better? The corners of his lips twitch awkwardly as I dip down to meet them. Surprisingly, he's good about it, and doesn't have a panic attack or anything Tweek-ish like that.

Clyde makes a noise of surprise, Kyle and Stan don't seem fazed, and both Ruby and Mrs. Tweak seem absolutely delighted. His lips eventually move back against mine shyly, and his hands come up to grip my shoulders until nails bite flesh.

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**Isn't the amount of ugly Tweek and pretty Craig too damn low? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please, please, _please_ leave me a review! I know where I want to go with this, but I need some more ideas, so please give yours to me. And if you don't just let me know what you think of this story! Constructive criticism is all I live for. **

**Thanks! And more love to the lovely internet cat. You are such a doll. Dog bless. **


	4. Now is the time to be alive

**SO MANY MUSIC REFERENCES. orz **

**I apologize for the long wait. Actually, I apologize for all the waits that my beautiful readers will keep having to go through. I really appreciate the favorites and follows and reviews. It's really inspiring. **

**So have my longest chapter I've ever written!**

* * *

I've always thought mouths were kind of disgusting, hence the lack of make-out sessions and kissing in general. Who the hell wants drool spread across their lips from anyone but themselves? And then there's the underlying risks- mono, unequivocally. It doesn't even have a huge appeal. Food goes in your mouth, vomit comes out, and sustenance sticks between the gaps of your teeth. What kind of sick individual wants to touch your last dinner with their tongue? Even dry pecks are some type of crass in my opinion. What if your counterpart has just put lip balm on? Then you're stuck with slathered Lip Smackers over your own perfectly typical trap, and let me tell you, Jenny's banana-blueberry-burst does not taste as good as it sounds.

Despite all of this, I can't help but feel that Craig's fit perfectly against my own. Perhaps it's because he coordinated our faces to excellence, but they're warm and soft and tasteless (maybe an underlying flavor of nicotine, I can't tell) where mine probably has the twang of three day old Java. It's a bit frightening, though, since I haven't kissed anyone in a while, plus, the fact that we are in a police station, in a red-neck town, surrounded by judgmental high-schoolers and family members. The latter of which seem to be elated over our embrace. I desperately want to ask Craig what's happened in detail, what is going to happen, and why he's kissing me, but there's something stopping my mouth from forming the words- that being another mouth.

My chest almost hurts; my heart beating so fast. I find my eyes closing and Clyde's chants of "What the actual fuck?" receding into white noise. Blunt nails grip Craig's bare shoulders and I realize they're mine, but I can't bring myself to jerk them out of his poor, already mistreated skin. There's no cringe or any indication of irritation, so I find myself gripping him harder, as if I'll slip right through the tiled-floor and live beneath Hell's Pass for the rest of my life if I let go now. Soon enough, the kiss ends slowly, Craig pulling back in apparent satisfaction. Ashen eyes don't open until a moment later, where he continues to stare at me. It's undermining, to say the least. I raise a dark brow and clear my throat awkwardly, taking a glance at the other's in the room. Before any other life-changing event materializes between Craig and me, Stan speaks up.

"I always pegged Tweek as forever-virgin." His voice is facetious, a small smile gracing his lips. I swallow harshly and pull my nails from my counterpart's back, not finding the audacity to even faux-laugh.

Raising a middle finger, Craig narrows his eyes. "Fuck off, Golden Boy." Some altercation between them seemed to boil starting as children. The two were always at each other's necks, trying to outwit the equivalent with a more spiteful and/or acrid comeback.

Putting his hands up in defense, Stan leans back in his seat, a smirk on his face. Kyle, on the other hand, wears an unreadable condition of either shock or confusion. It's almost comical, his eyebrows scrunched until a hitch forms between them, bottom lip being gnawed under his teeth. A choked laugh makes its way out of my gullet, a noise between a snort and a whimper. I think they can identify it as a laugh.

Before Clyde can freak out any more, Ruby rises to her feet, approaching us with that same menacing look she regularly wears. She's like the Mona Lisa at the moment if I watch hard enough. I can't tell if she's smiling or not.

When I look back up at Craig, I find him with his head turned towards Clyde, mouth forming words I can't read. Following his line of vision to Clyde, he seems to look just as stumped as I. The boy who still stands inches away from me simply shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

Turning back to the redhead, he holds out his long arms, silently requesting an embrace. She acquiesces, scooting into his topless grasp with reluctance. There's a maladroitly quiet moment, before Mom breaks it with her cheery yet calm voice, a conflict to my own paranoid tone.

"I didn't know the kids in town were so unique!" It's an odd statement, sure, but no one seems surprised. I know I'm not. For years I have been told I'm "especially common" by both my mother and father. The use of the oxymoron makes no sense to me. I'm not common in any way, and how can anyone be especially common, if common means all are equal? There's no special in that.

No one makes an attempt to reply, so I reach out and take my mother's hand once more as Stan and Kyle make their departure—Kyle with a formal goodbye, and Stan with a lazy salute. Ruby and Craig still stay in each other's grasp, the rearmost of which has his face hidden in his sister's pin-straight red hair.

While this happens, Officer Barbrady makes his debut with four files in hand, stepping from down the long, eerie hall that leads to the visitor's room. His footsteps echo eerily, like they would in a damp cave, filled with things you can't see and things unknown. I shiver. "I couldn't help but overhear your situations," he speaks in the same voice he's had for years. He's virtually stayed the same, besides the graying tips of sideburns making an appearance, and his belly fat increasing slowly over the years. "Tweek," he looks at me, lifting my file. A black and white photo of me from the fifth grade is plastered on the front. I almost laugh at my even wilder hair than now. Since Officer Barbrady can't read, I suppose he needs pictures. "Craig," he lifts a duplicate of the manila folder, an image of Craig on the front from the eighth or ninth grade. An awkward mustache covers his upper lip and acne dots his forehead, where his hair has been cropped off neatly. Next follows Ruby, and Clyde. Ruby's file looks like a novel, whereas Clyde's is thin as paper.

"Clyde, Michelle," he addresses my mother and the chubby boy, "Can I see you two privately?" It's nothing personal. They'll be the Tucker's future guardians, after all. It's logical to think they're making important decisions regarding them. While mom and Clyde disappear down that spooky hallway ("Where's your father, Clyde? Call him down here, you can't take Ruby alone!"), I feel a mix of fear (that hallway really is freaky) and humor. It's funny to see Clyde in his snapback and slides and socks follow my mother, who always looks so important and decorous, even in the midst of the night. Suddenly, I feel kind of bad for the officers and Stan and Kyle and Clyde and, hell, even myself. Mostly Craig and Ruby, though. Thomas had to start a big ordeal over something—I have yet to find out what in detail—and it's really taking away our time. I have work in the morning, but I don't plan on going back to sleep tonight. There's no way.

Suddenly I find myself feeling a bit awkward. While Ruby and Craig grip each other like their life depends on it, I stand five feet away, arms limply by my side. I'm abruptly attentive of my kitten pajamas and find myself tugging at the blonde strands at the nape of my neck before the brother and sister detach. Considering their phlegmatic front has cracked, I decide to open my mouth. "So what the fuck happened?" I practically shout it, the words bubbled on my lips and it all came out in a candid screech. Oops.

The two siblings turn to me, Craig looking impartial to my blunt query, while Ruby rolls her eyes, grayish-blue to match her brother's. That really is the only identification of similarity. Ruby has a roundish face, arched eyebrows and light freckles splattering her nose and cheeks like cinnamon, where Craig has sharp features, pale face split with intense, elegant eyebrows that shadow equally as ethereal, opalescent eyes. I vaguely think that he may be adopted, because if I remember correctly, Catherine was a blonde, and Thomas is a redhead. But Ruby's towering height and eyes that match Craig's identify some sort of relation. Maybe that's why Thomas is such an angry person; maybe the jet-haired boy across me isn't his son! "Is it because Craig is a bastard child?" That could be why he painted his skin with finger-shaped bruises and spilled too much paint on his ribs. I want to puke.

At this, Craig bursts out laughing. I quickly comprehend what I've just said and feel a burning flush creep up to my ears. God damn it, my social skills are about as refined as this town's coffee palette. I'm quite relieved he didn't get mad about my wild assumption. Both rows of white teeth are peeking through his smile and his dimples make lovely creases in his face while he continues to cachinnate, straight from his belly. Although it's an amusing sight, I feel myself drain from color while I continue to stare at the gap where his front tooth was once. It must have been recent, because they have the money to fix it, right? Suddenly, I feel my throat tighten when I realize where the space must have come from. While his hooting and hollering quiets down considerably, I find myself wanting to stare at his teeth more. Maybe my theorization is wrong… But who else would have knocked his teeth out? Craig doesn't play hockey, and he's doesn't box like me. I feel like screaming when the imagery of Thomas reenters my thoughts. Just like the vivid, slimy monsters I see without my medication. Just like the distorted, mean howls I hear when I don't shove pills down my throat. _This has been going on for a while. Thomas has been doing this for a while._

I think I'd prefer the gnomes to him any day.

"No, Tweek," he assures, answering my previous question, resting his fist on my forehead again. I blink up at the appendage and feel my lips twitch into a smile. "I'll tell you later, promise." With a nod under his curled hand, I side-step, letting it fall back into its place beside his side. Any curled fist near your face makes anyone a tiny bit concerned, right?

I yank at the bottom of my shirt, pulling it down, although it's revealing nothing. Casting my eyes at the bleach-white tiles, I run my tongue over dry lips, before mumbling in a small voice. "Can I kiss you again?"

He takes my face in his hands and we press our lips together. It's soft and warm and the tastelessness is something I really appreciate. Craig has nice lips, just like he has nice eyes and hands and cheekbones. I used to think Craig's eyes were mean and sparked ugliness when he approached anyone. Immediate bad intentions, I thought, but now I realize they're just lost. We stay like that before Officer Barbrady returns to the room. Even behind his sunglasses that never seem to leave his face, I can tell he's watching us. Everyone is. The hyperawareness is a bit unsettling now, but I don't want to move out of Craig's warm grasp. "Clyde called his father, Ruby. He'll be on his way," he explains to the younger sibling, but I'm not really focused on what he's saying. What I am spacing out on is Clyde's face of absolute bewilderment, his hand fondling the phone through his pocket, fingers tracing the shape of the contraption, tapping as if he's already typing in the recipient's name. Maybe _many_ contacts…

He's going to tell.

Clyde knows _everyone_. Things spread around South Park. The quiet mountain town has no need for cars at all, since anyone can trek from one store to the next in at most thirty minutes. That's good and all, but once something happens, everyone knows. We have nothing else to do but get the dirt on our fellow neighbors. Like the time Kip set his mom's hair on fire—on _accident_, might I add? Three minutes later, everyone knew, and Kip was made to feel like more of an outcast than he already was. I think he's in a mental institution now.

I don't want to end up in a sanatorium for kissing Craig.

See, the thing is, I don't like change. Routine is my thing, blending in is my thing. With drama comes change, and with change comes attention. Attention means questions and gossip and rumors, and although something new happens every week in South Park, I don't want to be spoken about, even if it's for a short period of time. We all know they spotlight will swerve back to Kyle and Cartman and them, but I still don't need anyone talking about me and shooting glances at me in public any more than they already do. That is _way_ too much pressure. I get it, some twist in your life can be for the good of the people around you, but I'm selfish. Like I've said plenty of times in my childhood, I'm not a team player.

Of course change will happen with the Tuckers, it's inevitable. The whole town was awoken by sirens, 911 are in their phone history, there's a video on YouTube already (uploaded by H8-JEWS45), and Craig's body is broken. But do I need to be involved? I don't want to be talked about! I like my personal space. I already know what they'll say, "That Tweek, who kisses boys and drinks too much coffee and saved the Tuckers, that Tweek."(Well, maybe that last part is giving me too much credit, but I _was _the one who convinced my mother to check out what was even happening with the blaring sirens.)

So I shoot Clyde the most threatening glare I can muster, nodding towards the hand prying at his phone. I notice it's something sleek and dark that he must have paid too much for. It's clad in a Superman case and I can't help but feel he's Lex Luther, or maybe I can throw kryptonite at him.

Maybe that's stupid of me. Clyde didn't do anything wrong, but he's right next to Red in royalty of gossip; he just can't keep his mouth shut. While Barbrady continues to blab about _responsibility_ to Craig and Ruby and how he must treat _The Tweaks and Mr. Donovan with respect_, I watch for cues in my mom's expression. I never want to disappoint her more than I already do, and maybe that's why I work so hard. But she seems delighted to take in another son, and she assures that my father will as well. In fact, I don't think I've seen her smile so much. Although it's late into the night, or perhaps early in the morning, she's beaming, her eyes glancing back and forth between Barbrady and Craig while she tries to hide the wide smile in her hand.

Maybe she's just happy to have a normal kid in her life. Craig, although appearing exhausted and bruised, has a happy air to him, but something seems off. Like when you think of a trip to the mall and then remember you don't have any money. Absently, Craig traces one of the tattoos on my arm—a diamond—staring at it with enervated eyes. He nods to the officer's rules, and I notice Barbrady seems just as tired as Craig, and would probably rather be asleep, not chanting a precise list of criterion to abused kids, a chubby douchebag, and a vibrator and his mom. Vibrator is the nickname Jenny gave me. Clever, huh?

Soon enough, the doors open, and Mr. Donovan comes rushing in, asking for an explanation. A group groan (even my mother) leaves our throats, while the father of Clyde looks around in half irritation, half agitation/confusion.

Barbrady dismisses my mother, me, and Craig, and yawns before sauntering off to find Mr. Donovan's file, muttering about Clyde's irresponsibility. I kind of feel bad for Clyde; he really does want to help. Something tells me he'll be coming around more often, very soon, though.

Craig takes Ruby's face in his hands, staring at her as intensely as she is him. "Be good, okay? I'll see you tomorrow, so, text me in the morning." And with that, he presses a single kiss to her forehead, and steps away.

It's frightening to see them so impervious about all of this. The pain visually blossoming over Craig's fair skin and the new life seem to have little effect on them. Even somewhere deep in the pit of my being, I feel some type of sympathy for Thomas. He's got to have a lot of shit wrong with him if he really has the enterprise to abuse his own child. Maybe "sympathy" is the wrong word for what I feel for him. Pity, maybe.

Right on cue, Barbrady clears his throat. "Mr. Donovan—"

"You can call me Luke."

"Erm, Luke," he continues, wiping a hand over his face. Somehow, the sunglasses don't move. Creepy as _fuck_, really. "We can talk about your situation later." Lassitude colors his tone while he turns to Ruby and Craig. "If you two want, you can see your father." I decide then that I'm a psychic. The blood-relatives exchange glances.

The lanky boy shakes his head, pressing two long fingers to his temple. "No, can I just get my shit and go. Please," he doesn't bother to make it a question. The elegant eyebrows previously mentioned sweep together in annoyance. It's funny, because Officer Barbrady already dismissed us.

"Do you have a key, honey?" my mother asks in her uncannily halcyon voice, very different than mine. She sets her hand on his shoulder; her bright pink nails (covered in polka dots— she has too much free time) a stark contrast to its pale background of his skin tone. He nods and gives her some affinity of a smile, lips twitching upwards. It isn't the tiny grin that's reassuring though, it's his eyes that soften and the tenseness in his bones visually leaving his body.

Ruby, however, stands up straight, looking over at Clyde. He looks as if he were previously checking her out, which would be good for her, I guess, since she likes him. Filmore would be upset, though. Every time she entered the coffee shop, he'd go red and get flustered. Anyway, the redheaded girl sternly faces Officer Barbrady, before placing her hands on delicate hips. "I'll talk to him."

When she turns to face Craig, the inky-haired boy meets her gaze with his monotonous frown. Neither of them says anything to each other, but Craig keeps his eyes on her when he speaks once more. "What's going to happen to the place?" he asks, referring to the high-rise.

The Officer shrugs, "It'll stay with your father, once he gets out."

"Which will be?" Craig asks, looking rather bored. I notice he's tugging at the loose cloth covering his legs. I have to pull my eyes back to Barbrady to stop myself from getting carried away.

"Well, we're gunna have to do some background check," he explains, running a hand over his face. "And we'll need to speak to his lawyer." Hah, it's funny that they assume he has one just because he's rich. This town cannot get any more redneck. He continues. His voice is exhausted while Mr. Donovan taps his foot in impatience, Clyde averting his eyes. "All we know is that you're safe to visit for at least five months, we're gunna have to fine him at least five thousand…" he trails off, turning back to Ruby and Clyde.

"Michelle, Craig, Tweek, you can head out," he gives us a weary smile, before eyeing Mr. Donovan and starting with, "Goddamn, you didn't hear those sirens?" To which Mr. Donovan replies "Of course I heard them!" in a much louder tone.

And then, we make our way out into the cool night.

* * *

The pitter-patter of rain on the sides of the car is mesmerizing. I find myself staring at raindrops trailing down the window as we pass through The Enlightenment. My face is comically pressed against the cool window while mom drives, Craig having taken his place beside me in the back seat. The two are lightly chatting, both of their voice a calm drone that melts with the rain. Light pouring from shops that are still open are absorbed by the rain drops as they dance down the glass. We're currently making our way from the high-rise building when we collected Craig's things—and by that, I mean everything- his passport, his birth certificate, his car, his clothes, _everything_.

At one point, I saw the face of the building pretty gorgeous. The windows didn't let you see in, but they reflected the sun nicely, making a warm shine gleam on the simulacrum that matched the other lofts. Now, it's gloomy and eerie, no lights on in the building—and if they were, I wouldn't be able to tell. No one in there ever tried to help Craig.

"Do you mind?" my mom asks reaching for the radio.

"Not at all," Craig answers in a docile tone.

"Tweek?" she asks, looking at me cautiously. I know what she's thinking. I'm being too quiet, not twitching or having outbursts. That should be a _good_ thing, but that means she knows I'm thinking too much. I shake my head, continuing to watch the raindrops slip down the window. She presses 'MODE' and her Killers CD (Hot Fuss) comes on, which she skips until she finds _Everything Will Be Alright_, which she hums along to lightly while Craig eases in the seat beside me. His stem-like legs are now covered, as well as his upper body, they're bedtime clothing, but I don't doubt he'll crash as soon as we get back to the town house, which reminds me…

"Where is Craig sleeping?" I ask, sitting up with heightened eyebrows. Mom answers matter-of-factly, turning onto our street slowly. The trees that are usually dead are weeping with leaves, green and lush from the summer sun. They hang over the town house, offering protection to the few that live there. Even they look upset about Craig's situation, seeming to droop lower than usual while the wind hardly rustles the branches.

"Well, he can sleep in your room and you can take the couch," she suggests. I nod, wringing my hands subconsciously. I'm fine with sleeping on the couch—I'm not going to sleep at all anyways. I hardly do, and when I do, it's for a short amount of time. When we pull in, the _Ballad of Michael Valentine_ is just starting, and we stop the car before the singing begins.

Opening up the car door, Craig pulls his legs up from the seat, walking around to the trunk, where three large suitcases, a small folder filled to the brim with documents, and a cage holding most of his possessions lay. He stares at them for a moment while I stand a distance away, before he hoists them into his arms, and then bites his lip. The cage is for a guinea pig, but his died the day him and I went to La Finca together.

"Could you…?" he asks, nodding at the empty cage and the folder. We walk into the townhouse in the rain together, my mother humming tunelessly behind us.

Whenever we walk in my room, Craig flips on the lights, staying silent the whole time. Mom has gone to change and fall asleep beside my father, who has already clonked out. She explained on the way that he'd be happy to take Craig in, we'd just have to explain a few things.

I look at him as he sets the portmanteau on the fluffy carpets, his bones whining with fatigue. I find myself biting my bottom lip harshly; looking around my room to make sure it isn't too _weird_ for him. He seems fine with my Marina and the Diamonds and Florence and the Machine posters and frightening drawings on the walls I create whenever I get _bad_. Weird, bad, they're ugly words. I hope I'm not too ugly—anyone is compared to him.

Sighing, he brings the three bags up onto my bed, and the soft mattress bounces under them. A scrape of a zipper disrupts the silence, and he looks at the array of clothing he brought. "I have a lot of shit," he speaks, running a hand through his dark hair. "You have space for that?"

I approach him, peering down into the bags. It's filled to the capacity with designer clothing and some of the cheapest shit I've seen, including: and In-N-Out shirt with cartoons of vegetarians draw all over them; I note he's a nice artist; pieces of cloth that must serve as shirts but have the necks cut so deep it might as well be a thong, the sleeves missing; plain grey or white or black sweatshirts with strange phrases in pen written in them (who is Earl? What's off-wij-kita?); and many other things. Then, there's beautifully stunning clothes that must be expensive as fuck. Comme des Garcon or something, and other designer jackets that I can't identify sit in his valise. Black Flag, The Ramones, The Beatles, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, and other band t-shirts are packed tightly together. Everything is pretty neutral besides a few rainbow prints of that off-wij-kita printed on simple black or white shirts, and pink donuts on navy or black hoodies.

Yeah, he has _a_ _lot_ of shit.

"What's off-wig-kita?"

"OFWGKTA," he corrects, pronouncing each word slowly with a smirk. "They're a group. Odd future," he points at the letters, "Wolf gang, kill them all. Don't give a fuck."

"Don't give a fuck?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, searching through his clothing until he pulls out a plain white shirt with OFWGKTADGAF in Cooper Black font written on it. "It's a mouthful, huh?"

I nod, taking the shirt in my hands and looking at it with a raised eyebrow. "Wow, they have a lot of merchandise… How come I've never heard them?"

"Because you have shit taste in music?" he guesses. I frown, crossing my arms and nodding at my Marina and the Diamonds poster.

"I'm sure she has a lot of music you could relate to."

"And I'm sure you can relate to Hodgy perfectly." My frown deepens. He's trying to make me look ignorant by naming an artist I don't know. He shrugs, "Okay, okay. They're not played on the radio, and not many people know them in this back wash town, but they're a rap group. Their lyrics are too explicit to play on the radio." Chewing on my lip, I give him a curt nod before returning the shirt.

Turning the cloth in his hands, he drops it back into the suitcase, zipping it up. "Do you mind if I put it up tomorrow?" I don't have to answer while he places the suitcases on the floor and pulls back my sheets. Really, I'm glad he isn't one of the people that insist they take the couch.

No, you take the bed, I'm not the one who got abused and has been for who knows how long, and has bruises all over his body, and a missing front tooth, and—

"You okay?" Lifting my head, I meet Craig's deep cobalt eyes. His flawless eyebrows lift and his mouth shapes an _O_. "You look like you're going to puke." I shake my head, rubbing at my eyes with the palms of my hands.

"No, I'm fine," I assure as he lies down in the bed contently. He bites his lip and lets out a sigh whenever we meet eyes. Those are the two signs of a speech coming, so I turn off the lights and sit at the edge of the bed, hands flat against each other and pressed between my knees. It's easier to speak in the dark, when you can't see the whirl of emotions flashing across the other's face. "Look, I don't know why you're doing this for me. I don't know why your mom is so fucking cool about it—"

"She's a pothead."

He pauses for a moment. Sometimes I blurt things out that take people off guard, if anyone hasn't noticed. "…Okay, well, it's pretty surreal. I'm just really appreciative, you know? I mean…" Some noises of shuffling interrupt his speech. I imagine he's sitting up now as my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. He takes a deep breath before continuing. It seems like he's having a hard time. "You know, self-pity is a really stupid thing, but I'm not going to lie. …Remember when we had a fight in the third grade?"

I chuckle as a pissed off mini version of me wearing boxing gloves reenters my thoughts. "Yeah."

"And remember when we were in the hospital?" I can hear the grin in his voice.

"Of course," I reply, "What does that have to do with this?" Oh god, could that fight have related to the downfall of events that's ended him in my own bed?

"And remember when I ended up in Guantanamo Bay? And when I met Morgan Freeman?"

"Craig, what does this have to do with anything?" At least it's not just me. That would be way too much pressure.

"Whenever each of these little _things_ happened, my parents would always help me through it. When I got back, they'd be really happy. I mean, that sounds normal, but it's pretty cool to be reunited with your family after trying to stop the world from being attacked by giant guinea pigs." He seems to be winded almost. I doubt he ever speaks this much. His voice is really nasally, almost whiny. "Then, on Thanksgiving when I was… twelve, I think, family showed up expectantly—my dad's side. Neither Ruby nor I had even heard about them. We never questioned it. The one time I did, dad left for days. Dramatic bastard, isn't he? God, it was just… silly of him. So when they actually _did_ show up, in person, you can imagine what my dad did."

Not exactly, but I don't say that; just lightly hum 'mhm'.

"The dude went berserk. He almost fucking _killed_ my uncle," Craig says this in a whisper that makes chills run up my spine. I crawl closer, staring down at him apprehension. He's eased onto his back once more.

"How?" I whisper back, pushing his hair off of his forehead.

"Let's just say the right to bear arms should not be allowed in America," he mumbled, wiping at his nose. It's not a sad kind of wipe, just a rub.

"Why did he try to kill him?" The word tastes vile, iniquitous. _Kill_ is such a black sound, it makes me sick.

He pauses for a moment, staring up through the darkness, his eyes cutting through it to meet mine. "We don't know, but they kept trying to contact him. A week after Thanksgiving, he just snapped. He left, and he did something…"

"What?" I insist, eyebrows shaping fear.

"I don't _know_. Um, after that, my mom wanted leave," he explains, rubbing his eyes. "…God damn, why am I telling you all this?"

"Because you know I don't have anyone else to tell."

It's harsh. I wouldn't utter a word of this to Filmore or Jenny, not even if I was being tortured. The silence that follows is bitter, and I tentatively pull my hand away. He stops it, bringing it back down to clasp with his. Although it's tense, I know he needs comfort. So I lace our fingers and ease into the spot next to him like we did during the sleepovers through our childhood, sharing secrets. So much has changed, except the small things, I guess. Like how Craig's plain hoodies and basketball shorts transformed into this array of strange outfits.

"Go on," I mumble, closing my eyes. I don't want to see his face; I don't want to see the fear and anger across it. I want to _hear_.

"He didn't let her. Um, that was the day I pretty much shat on Token and Clyde's friendship," he explains. "He threatened her that if she left, he'd make sure she'd 'never meet another man'. He tried to make it okay between Ruby and I. He said everything was just fine." Craig thumbs at his earlobe like he did the day I supposed he had an earring. "Then she left. We don't know where she is. He looked so hard. Files say she was never alive."

Creepy, definitely creepy.

A loud yawn escapes him. "I regret bringing you into this, dude. I regret everything I'm probably going to do to you, but i'm _so_ happy you're here."

Chills run up my spine and my throat gets taut.

_Something's wrong when you regret things that haven't happened yet._

* * *

**I feel like Craig is too open and boring. Maybe I should have included more of the two getting to know each other better first. Oh well, learn from your mistakes. This will definitely not be my only Creek fic. I already have ideas for another and I haven't even gotten close to finishing this one! **

**Anyway, anyone have any ideas? I take them into consideration and I realize this chapter was kind of slow. Just trying to clear up some history between families and then i'll get more into their romance and problems and all that. **

**Thank you all so much, and again, thank you to my beautiful editor, internet cat, who is also the Phillip to my Terrance. (But no really we look like those Canadian faggots.) Actually, she didn't edit this chapter just yet, so here's the sloppy unedited version... haha? **

**Kisses. :)**


	5. Little white-boy thug

**_SQUEALS_ ALL THESE REVIEWS! YOU GUYS! Thank you so much! **

* * *

When the sun arose over the horizon of the snow-less mountains circling our small town, I was awake with it. The couch hadn't been the most comfortable place to slumber, being cloth instead of cool leather. Our townhouse has a home-like feel to it, with Swedish art on the walls and brown furniture, our kitchen including wood instead of marble counter tops, the only chrome being our LG refrigerator. I wonder if Craig's home was chrome and glass and white and clean-cut, like I imagine it to have been based off of his traits, or if it was dark and eerie like some kind of menacing lair, occupied by drunken angry men, holding two children as hostages. I shiver under the blanket draped over my body. It must have been put there when I clonked out, recently too, because it hasn't absorbed my body heat completely. I'm guessing it was my father that adorned it over my frame. He leaves early, and must have seen me all poor and sad and blanket-less. I wonder if he knows about the new situation yet, or if he'll come home to a new son without explanation. My mother must have told him, or will on his lunch break. She works too, but part-time, in a small office for Sherman Williams. Every day, they meet up to have lunch, and have sex.

I sit up on my elbows, running a hand throw my wild hair and squint at the clock set under our television. Even on the Saturday morning of summer, I'm up at six o' clock. I'll have to live off of about two hours asleep, so I get up and prepare a latte, taking each of my meds as routine without washing my face or brushing my teeth. The film covering my enamel bugs me, but I'd rather drink coffee with morning breath than with the taste of gloppy toothpaste. I look over the many small bottles scattered across aforementioned counter top preparing my doses. LATUDA, Risperdal, Prozac, Zoloft, Celexa, Paxil, and other horrible names I don't care to read that will fix my jittering and twitching and wild thoughts. After finishing off my second coffee with each pill, I turn around to find Craig sitting at the dining table, a grin on his face. Toothpaste sticks to his bottom lip, and although his hair has been brushed, it shines with grease and crinkles behind his ears.

"Where the hell did you come from?" I gasp, internally scolding myself for cursing already. The dramatic effect of me pressing a hand to my heart makes him chuckle.

"There's a little story I'd like to tell you, called the Birds and the Bees. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, the man sticks his dick in a woman's pussy, and then…" he trails off, blinking at me. "You're not going to tell me to stop?"

"I like sex," I explain with a smirk, resting my elbow on the countertop and my chin in my hand.

He shakes his head, getting up to take my coffee from me. Taking a sip, his face crinkles in disgust before he sets the cup back down. "You're weird."

"This is new?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. His bony shoulders lift and drop in a shrug while he approaches me, running long fingers through my hair to pick out tangles.

"I can guarantee you, I'm weird too."

I can believe it. Craig Tucker may basically be the description of apathy, boring to anyone who doesn't _know_ him. Not that I can say I really know him, we're roommates, but it's not like I even know his orientation, or deep dark secrets, right? Maybe he fancies tentacle porn, maybe he likes Nicki Minaj, and maybe he keeps severed heads in his suitcase. A shiver runs up my spine once more while I take a step back from his probing fingers, ducking down to avoid any uncomfortable pulls or tugs. What if he had pulled my head off just then? I suppose my medicine hasn't kicked in yet if I'm still creating scenarios about death.

"Are you going to work already?" he asks with an exaggerated pout, palm rubbing at his eye.

"Yes," I answer, tipping back the coffee to finish it off before walking to the sink to clean it. His expression becomes the tiniest bit more alert. _That's right, Craig. We have to wash our own dishes here, you princess._

"You cum-guzzling slut whore, don't leave me with your mom, that's awkward as fuck," he whispers harshly. I'm more taken back by the name then the statement itself.

"You have to get to know her anyway," I shrug, opening the dishwasher to deposit my Java Jockey mug. "You can go see your sister or something if you don't want to, cunt-bubble."

"_Cunt-bubble_?" His mouth drops open while his elegant eyebrows rise on his forehead.

I blush, cheeks pigmenting until it reaches my ears, the blush heating up my face completely. "I couldn't think of anything else." Brushing out my hair to distract myself from meeting his face, I realize he's laughing again. This time it is silent, crinkles at the corner of his eyes while he hunches over. I guess he has a mute laugh when he's genuinely entertained. What a freak.

I trudge over to my bedroom to avoid getting any more insults and laughter, trying to ignore the feet padding behind me. "Cunt-bubble? Really?" he repeats, shaking his head like the epithet is honest humor. Yanking off my shirt, I rub on the Axe deodorant that takes its place on my shelf. I redress in my dark green work shirt for Tweak Bros (I have to change for Urban Outfitters), frowning while Craig flops on my unmade bed and snickers.

"There are plenty of other insults you could have used," he points out, counting off the names on his fingers. "Idiotic fuckface, stupid fucking abortion, motherfucking pile of tampons, shit like that." I wonder if mom hears this.

"Why are those any more sophisticated than cunt-bubble?" I ask, rolling my eyes while I yank off my pants and boxers, redressing in fresh ones. I don't care if he stares at me. Most people think my nature is too timid to do something so raw and brazen, but in actuality, I have a fucking great cock and butt, and I know it. I don't care who sees it. I'm sure it's just as impressive as a porn-star's. Gross.

Oh, yes, Tweek Tweak does have confidence. It settles in his awesome tattoos and ass and dick.

Strapping on my belt, I turn back to him. He shut up for a moment, staring at something that _wasn't_ my face. "It's not… more sophisticated, per se, it's just… Like… Not as… It's…" He's distracted and I feel a bit cocky. Vaguely, I think it's pretty cool to find someone who not only gets up as early as I do, but can't speak correctly. Smirking, I sit beside him, leaning closer to his face.

"It's what?" I say quietly, my tongue creeping out to wet my lips, eyes lowering. His jaw clenches, and before I know it, I'm pinned to the mattress, hands grabbing my wrists as a wrestling match begins. I'm laughing uncontrollably.

"You are a fucking abortion-slut-cunt-bubble _tease_."

When I cut Porsche's hair that day after my shift at Tweak Bros, she asks about the marks on my neck.

* * *

Although diagnosed with terminal hipness and having aesthetic taste in virtually everything, Jenny can be one of the most redneck _prudes_ I've ever met. Might as well equip her with Pabst Blue Ribbon and send her on her way to the McCormick's, but not without her getting her fill on archaic photography. Even though she spends time meditating and has chopped her hair into Bettie bangs, she hoots and hollers at the most trivial things. You can almost hear the undertone of 'boy howdy!' in her rowdy laugh. Personally, I don't think this is funny at all, but her fucked up sense of humor seems to think otherwise.

As soon as I entered Urban Outfitters, dressed in fresh clothes, a difference from my coffee-stained uniform, she was wiping running mascara from the corner of her eyes, sides in stitches as she howled. When I had approached her, she sobered up into leaking giggles from red lips. "Look, what we got in the shipment this morning." Ripping open a box, she pulled out a tiny square object, peeling the clear wrapper from it with uncouth judiciousness. "It's called _My Little Penis_." When she explained it was a book mimicking a children's story, she had begun to cry out again. On the back, there was a hole for her to stick her finger through, making the cloth penis—may I mention with a smiling face—'erect'. I was staring in horror as she flipped the cardboard page of the tiny book, the thing appearing to grow larger.

"'Little penis is happy with himself, but today, his opinions in himself has changed'," she read dramatically, brows rising with the words. A guffaw left my mouth, jaw agape as I watched her read the jejune piece of literature and art. "'Little penis has just discovered that the other penises are bigger and more muscular than him; especially the ones from Africa!'" She flipped the page, to where detailed drawings of full-fledged dicks were splayed across the pages—little penis in the middle. "'After a year, Little Penis realizes he'll develop, as he has been. Even his ball-buddies are growing in size!"

And that's when I slapped my hand over her mouth, silencing her. Well, an attempt to. She ran a tongue over my palm and I immediately wiped it on the leg of my jeans, disgust plastered on my expression. That's right, jeans. The north brought us some gusty, chilly winds along with the rain from last night, making the weather much less bearable for shorts. "This day has already taken a turn for macabre. Thanks for the nightmares, Jen."

She places the book on the counter, right next to my register while she wipes the smudged lipstick from the side of her mouth. I frown, flicking the stupid thing off of my work-space This encourages her to laugh again while she peels off the wrapper from each tiny book, placing them on the knickknack shelf next to the _Oh F*CK! I'm in my twenties!_ notebooks and _Feminist Ryan Gosling_ copies; looking oddly out of place beside the Boo stuffed animals. I shake my head, picking out my name tag and pinning it to the front of the black Golf Wang shirt. (I know you're only supposed to wear clothes from Urban Outfitters at work, but I doubt Kristen, our manager, cares)It has an upside-down cross plastered across the front, but I don't mind, mainly because I don't trust the god that made me like this anyways. My parents still drag me to church on holidays, but like hell I'll participate in prayers and giving money to the church. I hope Craig doesn't mind church.

"Nice shirt," she nods, raising a cartoon eyebrow.

"Do you know Odd Future?" I ask, pulling at the bottom of it.

"Yeah, I've heard Orange Juice. I never thought it'd be your style, though, with your little hipster taste." She's referring to my love for Florence and the Machine, Marina and the Diamonds, and Lana Del Ray, my taste in food, organic and overpriced for small portions. Last week, when I confessed my love for alternative pop, she decided I was the biggest hipster on the planet. Ugh.

"It's not—this is Craig's shirt. I've never even listened to them."

"Oh yeah, I heard about that." A smirk graces her face as she bunches up the plastic and tosses it into the cardboard box. Behind us, a faint ring is heard from the door being opened. A tall Asian walks in beside a blonde girl, but I can't see exactly who without my contacts. Fuck me; I forgot both my glasses and contacts this morning. "You two are roommates now, huh? Cartman has the arrest all over the internet, and Clyde texted everyone about Craig and Ruby's new living situation. And now you're wearing his _shirts_? You are a fast moving little gay boy." She shrugs, running fine nails through thick, straight bangs before continuing when I don't reply, "Good job, you saved the biggest douchebag on the planet before he became a bigger one. I really don't see your attraction to him. He's so grumpy. Maybe he should listen to Little Penis and be happy." Everyone's heard about the situation. The moment I walked in Tweak Bros this chilly morning, Filmore was pointing an accusing finger at me, whining about how I didn't call him about Ruby. And now, my other co-worker hates my new roommate. Which shouldn't bother me that much, but it does.

The difference between the two is that Filmore was a whiny prick and begged for details, not regarding me, or Craig, or the abuse. All he cared about was Ruby, and how he might be able to make an advance on her. His crush is pathetic. Jenny, on the other hand, doesn't care what happened, and won't pry unless I give her permission to. Her concern only regards _me_. Somehow, that makes me a bit happier. My parents treat me like a project, not a son. They view me as an undertake that progresses over time, which really is what a child is technically, but the word 'nurturing' doesn't associate with technical relationships.

Maybe I'm using pathos too much, they're not _too_ bad. Just void of emotion. My mother with her cheery attitude seems mechanical. And it's not like they're going to disappear or abuse me…

"Little Penis is unhappy with himself though," I point out, returning my attention to Jenny. I don't have that much of an attraction to him. I don't! Even if I did, just wearing his _shirt_ wouldn't let Jenny know that I have one—if I had one; which I don't.

_Denial_, a voice mumbles in the back of my head.

"So is Craig." I frown while she continues, "And besides, you didn't read the climax."

My face shifts from a frown, and scrunches in disgust, going through my duties of picking up the clothing items from the floor of the dressing rooms. "You did _not _just use that subliminal message," I call over my shoulder, only to find that Jenny is right behind me. Leave me alone with my cool shirt and Craig-filled thoughts, god damn it.

"Also, look at what else we got—"

"If it has to do with genitalia or anywhere around the butt and/or crotch expanse, I swear to god." I don't bother to finish my sentence as I hang up the various scarves and tops, frowning at the mess one particular customer made.

Jenny shakes her head, "No, no, I'll show you later," she throws me a wolfish grin over her shoulder that makes my fingers curl. Ugh, she wants to freak me out. Well too bad, I made sure to take an extra dose of my LATUDA. While she helps out the blonde and the Asian, I make use of pulling the sleeves of an inside-out Stussy Varsity Bear Crew sweatshirt back out, tossing it onto a hanger and check for stray hairs that might have fallen across the expanse of the cloth.

When I turn back around, the two customers are close enough for me to make out, that being Annie and Kevin Stoley. Huh, I never figured those two would step into an overpriced hipster apparel store. But when I see the box containing the Vagabond Iris Leather Combat Boots in Annie's grip, I grunt in understanding. She's the type to get combat boots. The girl is pretty weird; she's always dressed in this ominous trench coat. Her hair is styled into an edgy Mohawk, complimented by shifty eyes that cause me to believe she has weapons and disassembled body parts in the pockets of that coat. Her trench coat causes people to belie her actually kind nature, if not a bit pessimistic. We had Biology together freshman year. Kevin, on the other hand, looks so innocent next to her, with an aloof, goofy look plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the edges of almond-shaped eyes when he grins. He's got a Star Wars t-shirt on—what else to expect from him?—and a blue hoodie that never seems to leave his frame.

"That'll be—"

"Wow, dude, how'd you score a job here?" Kevin interrupts me, furrowing dark brows. I clear my throat, biting my lip in a way to tell him that_: I don't know, it just happened. They liked the freak with the tattoos and edgy hair, like all hipster stores do._ I don't like making conversation with customers though, even if I've known him since elementary school. "You're so young," he points out. "To be working here, you know?"

Annie remains silent, blinking through fake lashes while he continues to talk. Her silence does not at all assuage Kevin's awkward conversation.

I scan the box, "Um, well, it's a pretty po-dunk town. They'll hire anyone…" I explain. "That'll be $180." I finish the sentence from before, scuffing my foot on the floor. Annie fishes out a studded wallet from one of her many pockets as Kevin continues his contentious speech.

"I mean, look at you! You're, like, sixteen, right? Me too." A frown stretches across my face; Cartman was right when saying that Kevin was always the kid that ruined the show. Annie plucks out her credit card and goes through the regular procedures of purchasing while I gently tuck the box away into a green Urban Outfitters bag. She puts away the credit card, plaiting away the wallet in a pocket—different from the one she pulled it out of.

"Kevin," she speaks up for the first time while he continues rambling on about how most people have to be over twenty-one to work at a store like this due to the flasks and harsh language. But, it's South Park. "Kevin, come on," she nods towards the door, giving me a tiny smile. They leave together, and I decide I appreciate Annie.

"How the hell did those two end up being friends?" Jenny wonders, staring after them.

"Maybe she wants to kill him and is making an alliance first so he'll be less suspecting." Obviously, that must be the correct reason.

"Of course," turning to face me with a moot expression, Jenny shakes her head. "Anyway, want to see what else we got in this morning's shipment?"

"Does it have to do with penises?" This asked seriously. I do not need any more shit involving genitalia and children's books thrown at me.

"No," she promises, holding up her hands in defense. I still don't trust her though. The look on my face probably expresses it, too. "It's_ clothing_, darling," she assures, crossing her arms over her chest. Before I say anything else, she claps her hands together and skips over to the dressing room, rambling over how 'she's going to be a model for me'.

Honestly, I hope she doesn't take too long. The dressing rooms are across the entire store, and the emptiness occupying the shop, void of Kevin and Annie, is starting to freak me out. I pick at my nails while I wait. It's easy to say I'm a workaholic. Work keeps me engrossed in it, and distracts from my thoughts. That might be why I have three jobs. It seems crazy, crazier than I already am, but my own deliberations aren't even _mine_. They're not imaginary friends, per se, but they're negative and scary or they're these odd double-standard, never-ending contemplations. Everyone has those every now and then, but when I'm not hanging up overpriced attire, or snipping hair or preparing lattes, that's _all_ I hear inside my head.

I stare at my wrist for a moment while I wait. The colorful veins are illusorily prominent beneath the delicate, stark-white skin over the appendage. I run my own fingers over the also salient, round bone. Then, I think about my own body. It's not even mine, is it? I'm just in my own perspective, if that makes any sense at all. Like, what if we aren't in control at all? We do things, and it's a personal thing, but what if it was planned out by whoever is up in the sky directing our actions? (Like I said, I don't trust the god that made me like this.) Like a second person book. The author writes out directions, but you're the one "experiencing" it. It's not my fault; it was my brain's fault and my body's fault. Then what is "my" and "I"? It's not your being in general is it? You could say it's your "soul", but that's not real. Oh, it might be a sense of mind, but it's not even _your_ mind, right? I've thought of this plenty of times, starting back when I was twelve years old. I also think about time and where we came from a lot.

_Present_ is a thought. There is no present. The instant something happens, it's over with. Time moves too fast, no matter how you measure it- seconds, milliseconds, whatever smaller digit you can slice it into, it can _keep getting smaller_, infinitely. There is a future, there is a past, but you're never in either. So what are you in? Present isn't real. You're nothing. And then "_you_" winds you right back to "my" previous train of thought.

And where we came from is such a controversial topic, with so many causes and history, it's impossible to even discuss, because there's no purpose. But does that stop me from thinking about it? Never.

…Fuck.

Ladies and gentlemen, a quick look into the brain of Tweek Tweak when he's alone; this is what happens when my friend goes into the _dressing_ room of Urban Outfitters.

I'm such high maintenance! It's scary to think _anyone at all_ can stand me—my parents, my teachers, my managers, Jenny, Craig.

I drag my eyes down the long veins, which eventually meld deeper into my skin. Before I get carried away with the trace of tattoos against my skin cells, Jenny reenters. Well, not exactly. She simply pokes her head out of the dressing room door, the grin on her face that of a Cheshire cat's. "Hey, come here."

Happy to direct my attention away from my own introspection, I check to see if there are any other customers that appeared while I was distracted. Satisfied when I find it as empty as it was before I left reality, I turn back to Jenny and make my way over. "It's gotta be quick," I mention, stepping into the same dressing room as her. I hate them; the lights surrounding the mirror are too bright, creating an illusion that your skin actually looks good and your eyes are more radiant than they are in actuality. Then, the doors squeak, and they're these wooden things that are meant to be vintage and cool, with etchings in them, in _Japanese_ of all things, but to me, they just look like some crap someone picked up from a dumpster. A single light bulb hangs in the midst of the entire room containing each of the smaller ones for dressing. It's dim from there, but the minute you open that shitty piece of wood, you're blinded.

I keep my eyes cast at the floor while I join her, and glance up. No wonder she didn't want to leave the room, the intimates casting her cute body are practically lingerie you'd pick up at DD's adult video store.

"I told you I didn't want to see any more genitals!" I whined, covering my eyes with my palms.

"Calm down, it's not like you can actually see my vagina," she says, and I can picture her rolling her eyes behind the aegis my palms provide. Peeking out, I scan my eyes over her. It's actually not that bad, her panties are simple and black. The bra was what threw me off I guess, it's a dark sheer front (Jenny was a pieced nipple, apparently) but when she turns around and pushed her hair over her shoulder, the many straps that create intricate an intricate design over her fair skin is actually very beautiful. I scratch a hand over my acne-scarred cheek and raise my dark eyebrows. Since this morning, I'm very aware of how unappealing my face is compared to Jenny's, Filmore's, and Craig's. Those mass of beautiful people just have to fit into my life and make me insecure about my sharp nose and oversized lips, don't they?

"That's really attractive, actually," I agree, running my eyes over it. What on earth would you wear that under, though? There are so many straps.

Jenny turns around again and yanks up her shorts (I don't see how she can stand it, it's already too cold for me) and smirks, "I know. I just bought one in leopard print and in black."

"Where are the rest?" I ask, continuing to rub my cheek. Before I can answer, the bell attached to the front door rings, signaling a new customer. I sigh and make my way from the room as Jenny ties her shoes. I don't see why she had to yank every piece of clothing off, but I don't frankly care. Girl's bodies aren't the things that bother me.

When I walk from the dressing room and greet whoever entered in a too-rushed voice, I'm acknowledged by the fucking fatass. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Fuck, why today? Why him? Why _me_?

"What do you want?" I ask, glaring at him.

His grin is malicious and off-putting, but I don't back off just yet. I've pummeled this kid once in the sixth grade, I can do it again. I should probably start boxing again. "_Tweek_," he coos. I don't like the look in Eric's eyes. His pupils seem too dilated, iris' a small line of brown.

"What do you _want_?" I repeat in a sharper tone, through grit teeth. My shaking has increased. Just that smug look on his face makes me livid.

He shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I just wanted to talk, ask you a few things, tell you a few things," he says; following me when I turn around the stalk back over to the cash register.

Jenny reappears, buttoning her cardigan over the pretty bra. Cartman's eyes glance between us and the smirk at his lips shapes a grin. "Maybe you're not as much of a fag as he says you are."

My lips tug downward in a frown. "Who said I am?" I don't wait for him to answer—I don't want to know. "Why can't you fucking leave me alone?" I demand instead, fists balling at my sides. "We both know I'm not a faggot, not any more than you." It's such an ugly word coming out of my mouth, but once you get me started, there's no stopping me. I overreact.

Jenny looks at me in concern, and starts in a cautious voice, taking equally as alert, careful steps toward me.

"Now, now, Tweek,_ I_ mean no harm," he assures, the grin on his face widening to a painful stretch. I want to punch it in, and I'm already cracking my knuckles and clenching my jaw. His expression seems to waver a bit, and the boost of self-esteem hits me like a ton of rocks. "I just wanted to ask if it's true or not?"

"What's it to you?" He may not have specified what "it" is; the living arrangement, my kiss with Craig, Jenny and I in the dressing room not five minutes ago, but I hate him, and I won't let any secrets passed my lips. Of _course_ my resolve won't shatter.

"Clyde texted me this morning," Cartman explains, leaning over the counter like some type of Raisin's waitress begging for tips. _His moobs are comparable in size_, I think to myself. "Not even a mass text, surprisingly. Just for me; you played tongue twister with Craig, right?" he smirks. I was right.

My co-worker holds up her hands and rolls her eyes, "Look, fatboy—"

"I'm talking to the coke-addict, alright, bitch?" he turns back to me, seemingly to stare at my tattoos, or maybe my skinny arm, before continuing without interruption. I think both Jenny and I are holding in absolute umbrage and rage. "It wasn't me who said it. This is what Clyde wrote." Lifting his phone, Cartman announced in a dramatic voice, obviously reading off word by word from whatever text Clyde sent. "'Craig and Tweek rubbed gums yesterday at the police station. They're a couple of fags I guess. Watch out in the locker rooms.'" And with that, he pockets his phone with a smirk.

Oh God, this was way too predictable. "Alright, sure," I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets a bit too rigorously. "Yep, I believe you, Cartman, thanks for that. Carry on."

His smirk falls then, and his thick brows fall over his eyes, casting burning shadows that mingle with his dire, dilated pupils. "You think I'm fucking lying?" he asks, bottom lip squished beneath straight teeth.

"No, no," I assured, shaking my head and crossing my arms. "Not at all. I mean, Eric Cartman has never lied to me before."

Pulling his phone out once more, Cartman taps on the screen until he pulls up the supposed text.

_New message: Fatty Donovan_

_8:09 AM_

_Craig n Tweek rubbed gums yesterday at the police statibn. Their a couple of fags I guess. Watch out n the locker rooms._

Rereading it until my blood seems to be crackling beneath my skin, I sweep my eyes back up to meet Cartman's, tugging at my hair at the nape of my neck in frustration. "So? What about it? Why do _you_, of all people, care?"

"I came here to see you have a panic attack and kick his ass," he shrugged. Points for honesty.

"Wait, wait," Jenny wets her lips, snatching the phone. He yells out "_hey!"_ but doesn't take it back. "That's not what Clyde texted _me_. You changed it," she rolled her eyes. Point deduction.

"Nu-uh, this is what he texted me! I told you, I didn't get the mass text. He sent it separately," he insists, eyes rounding in desperation, and I note it's kind of pathetic. Cartman as a whole, all of him, is inch and inch of pathetic; that's a lot of inches. "Dude, I'm serious!" Looking through the texts, Jenny leans over and shows me. Most of them are just homework questions, calling each other fat—and there it is.

_Craig n Tweek rubbed gums yesterday at the police statibn. Their a couple of fags I guess. Watch out n the locker rooms._

_NO WAY_

_Yah dude I was there_

_THEIR FAGS NOW? LOL_

There's no reply. I guess I couldn't stand the way Cartman texts either, and Clyde's texts are just as obnoxious. 'They're', not 'their'. Even behind their texts, there's a thread of doubt sewn through me. I look through his phone, scrolling through the contacts before I find Clyde's number. Tapping the screen to call him, I lift the cell to my ear, tapping blunt nails on the counter top while the dull ring repeats for two, three times before Clyde answers.

"What?" he asks, his mouth full of something. He swallows before I say anything. "Cartman?" he asks over the line.

"No, it's Tweek, asshole," I growl, lifting my eyes to meet Cartman. The look of glee on his expression and acrimony is his laugh fills me with anger, blood boiling. "Look, fatass—" Jenny tries to wrestle the phone from me but I turn my back on her. "—I don't know why you think it is okay to call your fucking friend a fag. You can call me it—"

"Craig's not my friend," he says over line, surprisingly calm.

"So it's cool to spread around his personal life? Call someone you don't give a shit about a faggot?" I ask, nails gripping my own knees. Jenny stops clawing at my shoulders now, and Cartman's laughter has heightened to a guffaw like some kind of alarm. "Look, I don't talk about how hard you are for a fourteen year old, I don't talk about how you killed your own mom; no one does, even though _everyone_ knows you did, and you are!" Maybe that was harsh. His silence over the other line gives me incentive to continue. "Fuck you, Clyde!" Shit, am I yelling? I don't know—it's not me, it's some other crazy imaginary up in my brain. "Fuck—"

"Shut the fuck up Tweek. Everyone's an asshole these days, I said one thing. It's nothing compared to some of the things people have said about _you_," his voice is steady and condescending, "Stop acting like you have to protect him, he's a big boy, you little fag."

The tone on the last two words sends me into some kind of fucking internal rage. "I'm going to kick your ass." Cartman laughs loudly, clapping his hands together.

"Yes!" he hisses. He always had this weird obsession that I could kick anyone's ass after the incident in third grade, sixth grade, and ninth grade. Not before that fight, though. Once, he said 'the crazies are the most violent'. I guess he's right.

"Tomorrow fucking night," I hiss.

"Dude, calm down! It's not that big of a deal!" Clyde groans.

"Behind the school. You're going to fucking die, asshole!"

"In your dreams Tweek. Fine, I'll be there." Cartman's leaning in to the phone, begging me to put it on speaker phone. Jenny, on the other hand is repeating "Stop it. You don't want to do this." I ignore her, no matter how much I'll pay. She's probably going to ignore _me_ for the next week, but I have more important matters on my mind. I hang up, and chuck the phone in Cartman's direction, hitting him in the nose with satisfaction.

The rest of my shift, I get ignored by Jenny, dig my nails into my palms, practically burn hoes into the customer's head with my glare, and think of strappy bras and storybook penises and why they get to be so goddamn happy to distract from the reality that will be me putting Clyde into a coma.

* * *

**I actually love Clyde. Tweek just overreacts, that little bitch. **

**All that unneeded shit with Tweek's thought processes and Kevin and Annie are just details I included to describe what the people in the town were like, and how Tweek's mind works. He really is crazy, and you'll see that laaaater. **

**Next chapter will probably have more Craig/Tweek in it. Thank you all so much for reading! Please leave more sweet reviews!**


	6. Time to get out of the art section

While it is ignored on the map, South Park is known for the epidemics, supernatural disasters, deaths of celebrities, and of course, Eric Cartman—the main factor (besides Stan, Kyle and Kenny) that brings all the attention here. I've never liked small towns, big cities always interested me, but the paychecks my dad received for the longest time brought him here long before I was even a fetus. He met my mother in Greeley, and a year later, they were dating in the soft confinement of a suburban home. It was a lovely life, I suppose, but it changed. See, then I came along, and when I was the age of twelve, Mayor McDaniels decided the town should expand, become bigger of a city until we were known for something besides the discovery of crapping out your mouth. It expanded internally, meaning they put up the Enlightenment, by Drenner. Drenner is the father of that Goth kid with the red hair or whatever. I hear his hair is brown now, not that I really give a shit. Apparently, he came up with the blueprints, designs, and eventually, built a few buildings with his own hand's contribution. The place was a mini-city, with high-rises over stores, bistros and restaurants littered the area, and a small park stood in the midst of it all. It basically screamed "rich and white." As soon as my father drove past it, his eyes lit up, and he made it his mission to move there. Why? I don't know, something about it reminding him of the "good old days" back when he was around sixteen—he lived in downtown Denver; except that was a stupid comparison, because if I remember correctly from Grandma's description of their life, he lived on the outskirts of it, around the shifty strip bars and gay clubs. Apparently it smelled like soaked cloth and cigarettes, musty and old. The Enlightenment didn't help South Park become better known, seeing as most of the citizens of the town still lived in the suburban homes that were more conveniently located, and only a small drive away from grocery stores and schools, office buildings and fast-food places instead of the overpriced small dishes Brio and Ra served. My best friends, Clyde and Token resided in the same home they grew up in (until Token moved), as well as the majority of the town, not including the Neals, Broflovskis, Tweaks, Simons, Andersons, retirees, and rich, single twenty-year-olds with their future brighter than the pot of fire that gleamed over the fountain in the park at night. Yeah, that's actually a thing—apparently it's peaceful? Some college students do yoga outside of it every other morning. All in all, Drenner wasn't unique to other towns, but McDaniels sure did appreciate it. There was little population, like mentioned earlier, but my family moved here. We never aspired to get the _penthouse_ of "The Lofts," but floor six was just as nice in my dad's opinion. The rent was unimaginably high, numbers going through the equally as overpriced roof. However, living there was luxurious. In my opinion, they could have stepped up with the coffee bar downstairs and provided something that didn't taste like sewage, but I was willing to comply—my dad, however, didn't force the shit down. Daily trips to Harbucks were taken, and a few to Tweak Bros. The entire situation basically screamed, these kids are rich, they have amazing options, and their parents are willing to kiss their feet. As long, of course, that they keep their mouth shut about what goes on behind closed doors; "they," meaning "me". How lovely.

Speaking of Tweak Bros, Tweek is at work; his third job, to be specific. How he can stay on his feet so long bewilders me. I like to sleep more than eight hours (I mean, I woke up early basically because I didn't sleep at all), I like having lunch at my own home, but hey, at least he's raking in the money. He probably makes more than anyone our age in this wretched town; he makes more than his mother, a stay-home-mom at least. All on his own, too. No one buys him his clothing, he mentioned once, he purchases it himself. When we went to eat, he paid for his fraction, and refused to let anyone invest in him, and if he wanted to spend sixteen hours a day working to keep his pride up, so be it.

So I am alone, with Mrs. Tweak. I wanted to go out and see my new-found-friend, but we would be spending enough time together soon enough. (The convenience of this entire situation is addling; how we became friends right before the incident occurred. I was lucky too. Token, having disappeared to _where's-it-Ville_ wasn't an option, and my other three alternatives were disgusting.) Maybe too much—we live together now, after all. There is no doubt we'll get on each other's nerves eventually. I can't tolerate close proximity too much, and with all that energy about to burst his system open, I doubt he can either.

Besides, spending time with Mrs. Tweak is actually not that bad. She's too calm, and doesn't seem like the best parent (she buys Tweek on request, even if it's rare, and said I could smoke, but to make sure it was on the balcony), but she is smart and the small confidence Tweek has must have come from her—or his father, who I have yet to meet face-to-face. The one time I greeted him, he mumbled something about having his "balls in a vice-grip." Mrs. Tweak's hair changes daily and she seems to spend a lot of time crimping it, or braiding it, or fixing her bangs into perfection. It's short, and brushes the back of her neck in a sort-of bob, but it looks attractive. Unlike Tweek, it's a light brown, and his father's is dark, with tight ringlets, or like I like to call it, pube-head hair. It wouldn't surprise me if the little hipster bleaches his hair, but it's been the same shade since we were in pre-school, maybe a tiny bit darker. This also makes me wonder where he got his almost-black eyebrows, which are just as unruly as his hair—he has to fix the drooping hairs constantly.

Yeah, and _I'm_ the bastard child. At least my mom and I have the same face. Mrs. Tweak has big doe eyes like Tweek, but that's where the resemblance ends. She has a much sharper jaw, and thinner lips. Her face is clear of blemishes, and her brows are thin and light. Her hair is thinner (layers are hardly an option for her) and Tweek's hazel eyes don't match her almond-shaded iris. A petite nose contradicts Tweek's sharp one, and her eyelashes are much shorter than Tweek's, which are a tint of albino-white, while hers are dark and ebony.

Mr. Tweak, or Richard, gets off work an hour after Tweek does, and is just as intelligent as Mrs. Tweak. I only know this because when I leaned against the door frame of their study and knocked on the already-open door, the two were webcamming. At first, they were cooing at each other, and I had to let a smile quirk up on my face while the pretty lady with crossed legs, holding a Mac, air-kissed the screen. She then patted the spot beside her on the bed; I took a seat next her and leaned over to greet Mr. Tweak. He apparently knew about the situation, and took it with a welcoming smile. We engaged in a conversation about corporate markets and how they both hurt the community (which I didn't give a shit about) and benefited it. Once a family-owned business with huge competition against Harbucks, now Tweak Bros is a small franchise all over Colorado, and he's the franchisee. At least that's what he goes by, which is odd since he never purchased it from anyone. Apparently, he had to get back to work, and left us with a curt wave and blown kiss to his wife, and the woman attempted to "catch" it. It was adorably sickening to say the least.

By afternoon, Mrs. Tweak was still barefoot and padding around the home in lounge pants, never putting laundry away, or doing dishes, or keeping herself occupied like I imagined stay-at-home wives did. I was anxious to get outside. I had stayed indoors for the majority of my middle-school years, as well as my freshman and sophomore. This year was my junior year, and although I'm taking senior classes, I have gym to finish, and if I didn't do another 5k soon, I'll be way out-of-shape. I'm also extremely competitive, so getting a head-start a month before school begins would really help me refrain from punching some dick in the face over a four-second loss. I was preparing to go to Tweek's room (not _ours_, which is too personal) and pull on some Nike shorts, and took my seat on the plush couch cushions figuring I had spent enough time with Mrs. Tweak for today, when the soothing voice cut right through me.

"Honey, do you want some tea?"

End recap. Looking up from my phone, which is paused on Fruit Ninja, I meet her behind the counter. Their living room and kitchen, like most homes, meld together, so she can be cooking while I'm on the sofa and it's alright. It's almost late afternoon, but I nod, and she prepares me Earl Grey with three too many spoonfuls of sugar than I prefer. I drink down the sweet stuff with light conversation about the rest of their family. Tweek has no cousins, no aunts or uncles, and no one else. Both pairs of his grandparents are alive; however, they live in Florida, and don't visit often. My grandmother (from my mother's side, the other is dead) is a widow, but the sweetest thing on earth. The disappearance of Mom had left her heart-broken, and when I visited her last summer, we had to cry over it together. I didn't cry, but I soothed her and blinked the oncoming waterworks away. She sends me about one hundred dollars each year. I don't let Kyle and the rest near me in the month of July due to the previous incident.

Eventually, the conversation comes to an abrupt stop when Sharon Marsh calls and the two prepare a dinner date. Vaguely, I think she must have a great life, seeing as she has no work, no plans, and a lovely family. Another radical difference between the two; Tweek juggles three jobs in the summer time and that fact alone bewilders me. She, on the other hand, probably had a bunch of high-school friends who took selfies together and traveled to some crappy lake in the summer.

I dismiss myself and step out into the hot afternoon air, having done way too much talking than I would have originally preferred to. It's cooler than yesterday, but the sun is high in the sky, and I can't find myself to actually thank the very light breeze just yet. Maybe I'll beg for it back in the winter, but for now, the balmy temperature isn't my definition of pleasant. I take the stairs down to Flora & Muse, the small bakery/restaurant that the Tweaks' townhouse resides over. It's not technically a townhouse, seeing as there's no tiny porch or anything, but it's not a high-rise either. It is two stories, but it's packed tightly. The Enlightenment still labels it as a townhouse, however. Ducking past the look I get from the waitress, one that says "You're not a Tweak!" I step outside and lean against the patio's white railing. It's beautiful, the deck. The tables have intricate white etchings and a canopy sits above it, fans lightly twirling while ladies with sunhats and sunglasses sit under it, munching on salads and chicken. Vines climb up the sides of the canopy, wrapping around the wood. If you go in-between Flora & Muse and Paper Source, there's a clean path, a big advertisement of a woman smiling and shopping stuck to the side of one of the buildings I don't have the name for. Someone's colored one of her impeccable white teeth in with what I assume is a black Sharpie. If you keep following it, there's the intersection of the Broncos Bar (a sports bar, which is packed during football season) and the B-Human Gallery, a small modern area for showcases of art pertaining to the events of today. Sometimes there's live music or shows, other times no one's in it and you can walk in while music plays from a Mac that anyone could steal but no one does. I take this path. If I stick out my arms, both my hands touch either building, fingertips just barely grazing the surface. In this intersection, there's a small fountain, one different from the one in the sharp-cut field. Pennies litter the bottom of it, leisurely swimming around while the constant trickle of water interrupts the stillness. I take this way to the stupid outlet Tweek works at, mainly because it's longer and less crowded. Only a Hispanic couple occupies the bench, the woman's head resting on her boyfriend's shoulder. Before I get very far, I climb up the stairs to previously mentioned gallery. Like usual, it's empty, but I need some time to myself before I throw my being into the torrent of never-ending excitement that is Tweek Tweak. Mrs. Tweak alone was enough—she fed me constantly, talked too much and too softly.

Photography of runway models is their subject of today, the music that is blaring from the speakers is some violin piece. Ajuma Nasenyana is the focus, her beautiful figure doing something inhuman as the photographer documents her against a white back drop. Other models I don't recognize also seem to have come to this studio, and it has a very Terry Richardson feel to it.

Ugh, I should be wearing a beret and be holding a glass of wine.

After about ten minutes of observation, I exit, the couple now gone and replaced by two men who are looking through a professional camera and chattering. One has a bright red beard, and the other has cords that are rolled up to his ankles. I shudder. It is definitely time to get out of the art section.

* * *

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?! You'll get yourself killed!"

"Why do you think_ that_?"

"You're a scrawny thing. I don't care if you have 'Golden Gloves' or whatever, you can't bring a weapon, and he can probably kill you by sitting on you!"

"Shut the fuck up! I can kick his ass; he's way too fat to actually catch me."

This is the conversation I'm hit with when I open up the doors to the outlet. Jenny and Tweek are the speakers, the female furious, but the blond steaming. Cartman also occupies the store, clutching his ribs and bent over. At first, I think they're talking about him, and maybe Tweek punched him in the gut or something, until I realize he's laughing.

"He's not that big, you're just skin and bones. Anyone can take you down, unless it's like, Butters or something. I'm not letting you get hurt," what seemed to be in insult turned into a sentiment, her hand resting on the blond's shoulder. Before the young man can say anything else, the manager of the store walks in. The only way I know this is from the name tag occupying a hoodie.

He's a middle-aged man, with gauges and tattoos, and obviously unmarried if _this_ is his job. "What are you two doing?" he scolds, glancing at me, and then at Cartman. He can tell we're not customers on sight, I'm sure, but he continues. "You two know better than this," when their argument's volume washes over him, he raises his voice. "You have customers, stop fighting!"

By the way Tweek's jaw clenches, this is definitely new to him. He looks over at me, an expression I can't read crossing over his face, before he turns back to his manager. Jenny looks calm, but Tweek's hands clench and unclench before he requests to leave for the day. By the way his manager's expression softens, I can tell he's considering it. No doubt thinking of the way Tweek freaks out every once in a while. More than usual I mean. I don't know what he has exactly, but some of those pill bottle's names are wild. Eventually, the man dismisses him, and Cartman sobers up, whining all the while he exits the store, his husky frame pushing past me. Jenny looks at Tweek with a saddened expression, before she has to call someone else to drag to the stupid store to work. He picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before he walks to me, bidding a farewell to the two coldly.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I keep my mouth shut while we leave the store together. The stony condition on his face says he doesn't want to be spoken to, and frankly, I'm great at not speaking. However, I'm antsy to know who he's fighting and see if Jenny is right. Tweek is pretty small, probably five-foot-five or five-foot-six at most. His arms are thin as well as his legs, and his stomach is probably the flattest thing in the world. I try to conjure up who else is over weight in our town, excluding Cartman. Most of the people here are country folk, skinny or at least thin. I cross out the people in our grade first- Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Butters. Then I go for the older kids- Kevin, Shelly, Sid, and some other people. Then it hits me. He's going to beat Clyde's face in.

Before I can stop myself, I've lifted Tweek up over my shoulder and squeeze him tight around the waist.

"Let me go! _Let me go_!" he cries out, legs wrapping around me in absolute fear of being dropped. I can't help but grin widely into his stomach. His hands are pulling at my hair while he hollers in alarm. It's stupid, seeing as Clyde really has done no wrong, but for some reason, every time I picture his dumb face from last night, my blood runs hotter through my veins, making my fingers spit fire when I pick up anything. "Craig, please! I'm scared of heights!"

Of course he is.

I set him down gently, and his hands don't leave my hair until he's sure he's been stably on the ground for at least five seconds. "Why'd you do that?!" he cries, yanking at his hair as per usual. This is the Tweek we all came to know throughout the years, not the mildly calmed down, if on edge, hipster thing he is. No, this is the paranoid, I-can't-dress-myself-because-belts-are-hard-to-put-on-and-I'll-rip-any-thing-expensive-you-get-me-as-soon-as-I get-stressed-which-is-always Tweek Tweak. It's absolutely lovely. I'm in bliss, pulling him in for another bear hug while his arms hang uselessly by his sides as I swing him back and forth.

"You are the best, you know that?"

"Why," he whines into my chest this time. It isn't even a question.

I pull away and grab his face, staring at him while I'm sure my smile scares him, as his eyes widen in fear when he catches sight of my teeth. "Because you're the best little badass on the planet, that's why!" I exclaim. I don't think anyone has ever seen me this giddy in public. I'm sure I look demented, or at least high. Then, a realization hits me. Clyde is going to kill Tweek. No matter of tattoos and scary circles under his eyes makes Tweek an exception from the reality that will be Tweek getting murdered. It's obvious, too. While I love Tweek for what he's doing, I have to be realistic. The kid is scrawny, and Clyde is at least a few inches taller, and a whole lotta pounds heavier.

Instead of discouraging him, though, I grab his wrists, looking him over. His guise has turned fearful, or at least mildly aflutter. "How much do you weigh?" I ask softly, eyebrows turning down in fear.

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in the back. I don't bother fixing it. "Um, I don't know, like, a-hundred? Hundred-ten?"

I groan. Now, his face converts from apprehension to slight anger. "What? Oh, come on. You don't think I can fight him?" I think for a moment. He did kick my ass as thoroughly as I kicked his, but I don't want that outcome. I want him to win. And besides, we were eight then, and about the same size. Growth spurts have led to major differences. While Clyde has to shave daily, I doubt Tweek has picked up a razor. "Just because I'm light doesn't mean I can't beat the shit out of him or you!"

Instead of pushing him anymore (who knows what that little monkey can really do) I frown and cock my head. "Why are you fighting him anyway?" I ask.

The expressions that cross over his face are a potpourri of turbulence. His eyes cast down towards the ground, and he twists his fingers together in what seems like premonition. I nudge his calf with the toe of my shoe, urging him to speak to me. "Come on," I spur quietly.

"Cartman came in at the beginning of his shift…" As Tweek starts quietly, his story becomes more vivid, hands moving and eyes widening with each word. He looks like Richard Gere in the court scene of Chicago. Wild! His voice still stays at the soft volume of secrecy, but he meets my eyes, which are also rounder than they should have been, and the look is so intense that I can't bring myself to break our gaze. I find myself more fascinated with his white eyelashes and specks of green in his irises than the fact Clyde called me a fag, and that Tweek almost kicked Jenny to show her what-for.

Didn't I say Tweek was a never-ending miscellany of excitement? It's like he hasn't gotten a day off, since I showed up. A sear of guilt plunges through me. Tweek is risking his own health (and this _is_ Tweek) for my benefit. Whereas his days must have been a never ending routine—this is what I've gathered from his home life—I have showed up. I basically stabbed his entire schedule with my own domestic problems, and he's willing to scoop in and save me.

It's touching.

"Tweek, don't fight," I ask. He rolls his eyes, which were previously scanning my entire soul.

"I knew you'd say that! I can fight, and—"

I cut him off before he can defend himself anymore. "I know you can fight. That's obvious. I kind of remember when you basically killed my eye in the third grade." I take a deep breath, pulling the smaller boy close to me. He squirms in my hold, but he's just going to have to suck it up and accept the fact that I'm a cuddler. "I don't want you getting hurt for me. If anything, I'll go kick his ass, but I don't really care to that much." I quickly think of all the good times Clyde and I have spent together. A stupid montage of memories plays in my head, significant moments up until last night. He really hasn't done much wrong—really, I'm the one who fucked everything up. He can't help being such a douche, and spending his last few years with Kyle and Stan and them must have enhanced that. Right? Of course I'm right. "I don't want anyone to hurt him or you, okay? Just don't, please."

A frown cruises over his features, lips tugging down in a childish pout. His eyelids lower and he shifts his vision from my own gaze to the ground. "I just wanted to—"

I'm kind of the dick for interrupting his speech every eleven seconds, but I do however. "You don't have to avenge more or anything. I'm perfectly capable of kicking someone else's ass on my own if I need to. Just let bygones be bygones with Clyde. He's really not worth it."

His shoulders droop and he slides a good few feet away from me, fists immersed into the pockets of his pants. Mouth pulling up in a small smile, Tweek's eyes lift to meet my own. A small mutter of how it'll make Jenny happy makes me roll my eyes. She's the most obnoxious motherfucker on the planet. Why does he have to appeal to her? "Alright, but what am I going to do with all this pent-up energy?"

I shrug, placing a hand on the top of the other boy's head. "If you want, you can punch me." As soon as I offered that, I regretted it.

"Oh my god, there's so much!" Tweek cries. I continue to blow my broken nose on the cloth napkin that the girl who works at Ruggles has offered me, dying it red. Blood and mucus runs down my chin and I'm sitting with my butt on the ground. He did something called a 1-1-2 to my nose with his balled up fists, and instantly, a surge of pain sprung up my face, and I fell down clutching it. Thankfully, this isn't the first time I've had it broken. I know how to fix it manually, without that wretched hospital involved. Continuing to blow my nose until the blood stops running, or at least dies down, I toss the gross cloth away, the waitress and Tweek crouched down beside me. I make a triangle with my hands, head swirling, and place my finger pads against one another, palms sloping away from each other. The apex of the triangle is then placed snugly against the top of my nose. I take a deep breath. While exhaling, I fit my hands tightly—maybe a little too tight—around my nose. Slowly, I drag my hands down my stained chin in the straightest line I can. It probably doesn't look right, so I ask for a mirror in garbled, angry speech. The girl presents one from her purse, a small thing for blush. I look in the mirror and readjust it, repeating my steps over and over until it looks right.

"Someone get him some ice," Tweek asks.

"And some pain medication," I contribute. Thankfully, I'm not entirely nauseous, I don't have neck pain, and my arms aren't tingling. That would mean I have to get real medical care. When I lift my head, I meet the eyes of too many people: a little girl, a couple, some pre-teen chick with what I assume is her friend and Tweek. The waitress returns with some kind of pill I don't have the name for, a baggie of ice, and a glass of water. I decide then that I will befriend her. My head hurts, and I take the pill quickly, guzzling down the liquid as I do. The blond who's responsible for this presses the ice to my face while sputtering apologies. He's sitting in my lap.

All the voices asking 'are you okay?' and 'does he need a doctor?' are starting to get maddening. I shoo them away, but before they all disperse, hold out my hand in the direction of the waitress and call her back. "Ruggles girl, come here." It's amazing how I can still use my voice without sobs making their way through my teeth. She returns, plopping down next to me. The pain deadens a bit as Tweek shifts the bag of ice. "Need anything else?" she asks. I answer her in the negative.

I get a good look at her then, realizing she's much older than us, at least in her mid-twenties. Freckles line her arms and face, and she has tan skin. Big green eyes with long eyelashes make her look a bit like Twiggy, that model from the 60's, but she's much more filled out. She's short and dressed in her uniform. "You're fine?" she asks softly.

"I'm Craig, actually."

What's cooler than being cool? Being Craig. Alright, alright, alright, alright… I roll my eyes at my own dumb greeting, but that only sends my head into more throbbing and causes my stomach to feel like it'll lurch. That's no good sign. She laughs, patting my shoulder.

"I'm glad you're okay, Craig. I'm Haley. You sure you don't need anything else?" Once again, I answer no. She nods, stands up, and then returns to work. I turn my attention to Tweek once more; the boy is still nervously looking at my nose.

His eye twitches a little, and his hands shake, making somewhat soothing, icy vibrations send up my face. I grin. "So you can fight."

"I told you," he mutters, pulling the ice away to inspect my throbbing face. "I'm so sorry, Craig."

Grabbing his wrists, I press our foreheads together. "Better me than Clyde."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because _I'm_ not going to cry and tell everyone."

Sighing, Tweek moves off of my legs, sitting back in the grass. "I feel terrible."

Scooting over to him, I point to my face. "_You_ feel terrible? Could be worse." When his eyes widen in apology, I grin and shake my head. "Kidding. I know how you can make it up to me, though." A long silence stretches between us, and he wrings out his hands that had just attacked my face. The teeth that are holding his bottom lip drops it and he mumbles out his next sentence in a low, soft tone.

"I—But I'm not… Look, I'm not good at oral, but I can give a good hand—"

My brows raise high on my forehead and I cut him off, though I jot down that minor slip in my mind. Tweek gives a good handjob. Great to know; we've kissed about twice and he's ready to get all over my dick. Nice. "I was thinking sushi, Tweek," I assure, crossing my eyes to stare down at my nose. He lets out a sigh. "…You're paying."

* * *

**Another slow chapter, but I promise _promise_ promise that you'll love who shows up in the next chapter. I don't know one person who dislikes this character, honest. **

**Please review! Any suggestions, tips, ideas for what I could do? What did you think? Really, they do help me and give me incentive to scribble down the next chapter. **


	7. You say Y-E-S to everything

Ra Sushi is more of a nightclub than an actual restaurant. I've always passed by it on my way to Tweak Bros in the morning, before it opens, but I've never had to give it much consideration. The entire joint compliments the infrastructure of The Enlightenment, modern with sharp edges and cool lighting, and while I would like to actually get out of here for once, it's the only sushi place besides City Sushi (and Christ, that place is weird) in South Park. Maybe some other time I can ask Craig to drive me to the park or something. Obviously, I can't drive, not with trembling hands, twitching eyes and the paranoia of being killed on the road or anything.

So we would just take a leisurely walk to the place. At least that's what I wanted to do before my father stopped me with my hand on the doorknob. "Hold up, buddy." The look on my face must have been awfully sour to have Richard narrow his eyes at me like that. We probably looked like twins.

It took a lot of convincing, but my parents let me go after they saw Craig's bruised nose and my pleading lip that replaced my initial frown, the one that shouldn't have crossed my face until I was dealing with a teenage son of my own. I had to jut my bottom lip out a tiny bit, and bat my eyelashes until my father had waved me off. Mom, on the other hand, was busy getting ready for her own dinner-date with Sharon, pushing in her earrings and garnishing herself with a simple summer dress. Their conversation had been clear, hard to forget with such characteristic personalities:

"Honey, just let him go," Mom had said, tilting her head as she inspected her reflection. Craig lingered behind me, back pressed into the wall and ankles crossed while he watched, the same monotonous expression hazing over his features. I rubbed my bottom eyelid, which was probably stained with dark circles as usual as I waited for my father to give his OK. "He's old enough."

Running a hand over tight curls, which Craig had properly called pube-hairs when we exited finally, Dad gave a sigh. "I don't know. It's pretty expensive, and you'll have to pay for yourself and Craig, you know."

I shrugged, shoving my hands in my pockets while Mom spurted her neck with a strong perfume, which caused Craig to reach for his inhaler (appropriately covered with faded Red Racer stickers). "I don't care; I got paid two days ago, anyways. Come on, man, please? I sold like, five more cappuccinos than yesterday."

Eventually, the pops nodded and dismissed us but not before making the announcement of, "But _no_ alcohol!"

Before I actually made my way out the door, another "hold up" halted me in my steps. Turning around to the source with a groan, I asked, "What?" This time, it was Craig.

"You're underdressed. You can't go in there wearing a button-up like that." Looking down at my shirt, something I snatched from Goodwill, I sighed. It was a collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, covered in images of red foxes. I looked like Macklemore in the Thrift Shop video. Craig, on the other hand, looked damn nice, wearing black shorts that he mentioned were "Raf Simons" and a white shirt with the straightedge X watch that hadn't left his wrist since he strolled into Urban Outfitters, except he smokes, and drinks, so that kind of defeats the purpose. I'm sure a real S-x-E kid would beat him up for it. With his hands shoved inside his pockets and head slightly tilted to the side, coupled with a cocked brow, I was feeling very self-conscious about my find.

I don't let this appear to bother me, however.

"You are a _seventeen_ year old _boy_ who wears designer clothing and cares about how we look in a restaurant. I may be underdressed, but you're a pussy." How bold of me.

"Tweek Devick Tweak!" my mother scolded, middle name in use.

Snorting, Craig rocked back and forth on his heels, not at all offended. "You were just begging your daddy to let me take you to a restaurant with your boyfriend, and I'm the—"

"Alright, alright, I'll change!" I whined, saving my roommate from my parent's disappointment in his language. They thought of him well, even though my mother commented on his laziness once, but hell, he wasn't a nuisance like me. Dragging my feet to my room, Craig chuckled with a shake of his head and followed. After lots of minor vendettas, and my refusal to wear his clothes, Craig had picked out one of the few pieces of clothing he thought appropriate to wear publicly; another button-up, this time short sleeved and light denim, with suede oxfords and tan cords.

"I can't wear cords in the summer. It's hot. I look like a tool."

Leading me out the door, Craig made no comment besides, "You're fault for owning it." With a goodbye to my parents and a quick hand running through my hair in a feeble attempt to get it under control, courteousness of my mother, we made our way onto the streets, _finally_.

Inside, it's dim-lit and red lanterns hardly illuminate anything. Tall tables are adorned with flickering candles, and music pumps through the walls, the bass thrumming loudly. A large image of a nude (however well-concealed) Asian woman with impeccable skin hangs on the walls behind the counter, and televisions broadcasting a re-run of last night's NBA game is planted above the bar. Sports fans, coupled with a loud laughing group of drunken twenty-something-year-olds and the electronic and somewhat eerie drone of lyrics all come together to present the restaurant as an unpleasant ambiance to Tweek Tweak. While Craig asks the hostess for a seat on the balcony, I find myself tugging at the hem of my shirt, frowning when I notice one of the buttons in the wrong slit. Craig even helped me dress and didn't tell me! What an asshole. Making our way through the crowd of people, I fumble with my shirt, only creating more of a mess out of the cloth.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks, turning his head and pulling his eyebrows together.

"I'm fixing my shirt," I say, quieter now that we've been brought to the balcony. It's reticent, the music almost inaudible. The only noise really significant is an incessant cackle of a drunk woman, chatter of a group of teenagers about Craig and my age (thank god Craig dressed me, they look like god damn movie stars at a premiere) and the waitresses asking for orders. There's a bar out here too, by the back, and the bottles are dramatized by miniature lights, making the liquid in them seem more enticing than they probably are. The labels are written in Japanese.

"You're not fixing it," when we're seated, the woman asks us for drinks. I order iced tea, and Craig gets something called Sake. I'm about to ask what it is, when she asks for his ID. Giving his leg a kick under the table, he shoots me a glare and still orders it, pulling out what I imagine to be a fake ID. The woman nods and walks off.

Craig turns back to me "Dude, come here, let me fix your shirt… Why are you giving me that look?"

Flicking his watch, I narrow my eyes at him like I had done to my dad earlier. "So much for straightedge! Dad told us not to get alcohol—"

"This isn't my watch, it's Token's. He left it over at my place a few years ago. And he told _you_. Not me."

Pouting, I cross my arms over my chest and sigh at the mess of my shirt I've created. Walking over, he turns me around in the high-seated chair and begins to unbutton the cloth, replacing them in each correct slit. It's almost intimate, and I know he's teasing me, by grazing the pads of his fingers over slightly exposed skin and giving me a hooded look, lips quirked up in a half-smirk. "There you go, diaper baby. Want me to tie your shoes too?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't," he returns to his spot across from me and pulls out his phone, aiming the camera at me sporadically. Most may think I'm camera shy, but I don't really care. No point in fighting it when someone as stubborn as Craig won't put the thing away no matter what. I give him a fake smile, resting my chin on my hand. When the camera clicks, I stop stretching my face. "You look disgusting."

"Practice saying that in the mirror?" Why we're such assholes to each other has only one answer: we grew up in South Park. He sneers at me, and I roll my eyes and laugh. "Yeah, and _I'm_ disgusting." We throw a few more insults at each other before the waitress returns. She brings me the glass of tea and Craig a small shot glass and what resembles a teakettle. Both are black and glossy.

I cock my head and furrow my eyebrow at the miniature set while the woman introduces herself as Melissa and says she'll be our server. "Can I get you anything to start with?" she asks. The tall boy across from me orders edamame, in which I respond with a frown. He's purposely racking up the bill.

When she scribbles the order down and walks away, my frown wanes, and I find myself staring off the balcony at South Park to avoid giving Craig my attention in what's supposed to be defiance. Really, this town would be lovely, if it weren't for the oddities of the citizens and awful occurrences. It's quaint and small, and the mountains are still drizzled with snow. Its appearance is homely, and all the family-run businesses lining the streets give it an old-timey kind of feel. This shopping center contradicts the rest of it, with tall buildings and high-end restaurants, but the rest of it is pretty friendly, until you meet the actual inhabitants. After I examine the horizon and night sky for a while, I turn back to Craig, who has been silent this whole time. He wasn't gazing out at the town though, he had been watching me.

My eyebrows hitch together in defense, preparing for judgment. "What?"

Receiving no answer, I look to the waitress bringing back the vegetables, and give her a smile while she tilts her head. "Ready to order?" she asks. We both respond with a no, and she gives us a curt nod and steps away while Craig squeezes out the first soybean. Dipping it in the soy sauce, and taking a sip of his Sake, he gives me a warm smile. "You look really nice when you stare out like that."

Blinking in shock, my eyebrows rise at his comment. What? Where's the asshole who was calling me disgusting just a moment ago? While he digs into more of the beans, getting his fingers covered in sea-salt and soy sauce, I kick him under the table once again, causing him to drop his poor pod.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"Don't call me good-looking."

Putting up his messy hands in faux-apology, he closes his eyes. "Well, _excuse_ _me_ for being complementary, ass." There we go. Finally peeling open my menu, I startle at the dishes they offer. Everything is in fine print, there are so many options. Only a few pictures decorate the page to leave more room for all the choices. The images are colorful. As I squint and scan the page, I'm surprised to see a variety of not only sushi, but Asian tacos, soups, salads and something called "bento boxes." What do I even get?!

"What are you getting?" I ask while he takes another sip out of the glass.

"A spicy tuna roll, and Salmon Carpaccio," he decides, closing the menu and reaching for his ice water.

"Fatty! I'm not paying for that!"

"Yeah you are."

"And what do you think will make me?" I ask in a contradicting manner, raising an unkempt eyebrow. He purses his lips in thought, rolling his eyes. He seems as if he's going to answer, but instead shrugs and sits back. "That's what I thought."

Reaching out for the edamame, I press my fingers over the pod, and a bean pops out. I dip it in the soy sauce carefully enough to not have my hands match Craig's, and then pop it in my mouth. I've only had the steam-able ones my mom brings home, and these are much better. Not that there's much of a difference. They're just beans.

"…Tweek, can you please pay for me?" A timid request, and when I glance up to give Craig a harsh rebuttal, he almost looks so pitiful it's laughable. And I do start laughing, harsh, stressed chuckles. His eyebrows rise, swiping away the expression of my amusement. I calm down soon after, wiping a hand over my face and getting sea salt on my cheekbone in the process.

Why should I, though? I've been the one doing everything for him. From letting him embarrass me with a silly book, to offering him a home and bed. I don't want to spend a whole seven-plus hours of work on one meal I'm not even going to eat. Still, I'm too nice of a person, and his purplish nose is kind of pushing me. He apologized, uncharacteristically, earlier too… _"I'm sorry for everything I'm going to do." _That means everything, even the little things like this, right?

With a roused sigh, I look away and give a tiny nod. Just in time too, because Melissa returns, and I make a quick decision, getting something called a "Viva Las Vegas Roll" without checking the price and the lady gives us a smile and takes up our menus. When she walks away, Craig gives his thanks. It's almost mocking, so I raise my middle finger in his signature way to spite him, and he mimics it instantly. I don't say anything while he gets up, and for a split second I'm prepared to be thrown over the balcony before he squats to my height on the chair, and lifts his phone again. Oh, a selfie, just what I wanted.

His front camera alerts me of my inadequate appearance beside him, and I have to run my hand through my hair before taking a picture. He takes it quickly, and while I look relatively emotionless, or too focused on fixing my rat's nest, he is grinning widely, his missing tooth gap making an appearance. I have to chuckle at that, and he raises the camera once more to get another one, and his arm wraps around my shoulder. His expression is overly-seductive, tongue making its way closer to my face, and I have to scrunch up my face in response. Maybe the three glasses of Sake he swallowed was getting to him. The end result is beautiful, and we stare at it for a while in amusement, looks from aside be damned.

Eventually, the night winds down, and we talk more, throwing insults at each other here and there while I constantly apologize for his nose every time he brings it up. He gets drunker and drunker. Neither of us makes a fool of ourselves because we can both use chopsticks, and my meal is filling, the sushi pieces much more packed than I originally thought. When a different waiter brings the bill, I'm too focused on the horrid prices to question Craig's odd expression at the man, and grumble to myself as I pay for both of us. His stupid Sake cost me the most, and I return the bill with a sigh, finishing off the last of my food. It might as well not go to waste, seeing as it cost me over forty bucks.

Returning my attention to the cause of my distress, my eyebrows raise. He looks so intrigued, icy eyes colored with curiosity and glazed, head cocked slightly at the returning back of the man taking my bill. It looks like he's trying to say something to me, but can't make it out. Suddenly, his jaw drops, and he seems to have hit an epiphany, while I, on the other hand, slowly become more and more stumped. "Dude, what are you looking a—"

I'm ignored as he bolts from the chair, stumbling after the man, and yells out in a slur, "_Token_!"

* * *

**A/N: Blah. Short chapter. I've been really backed-up with my photography. **

**portfolio portfolio portfolio portfolio **

**STRESSFUL IMO **

**But I do hope you enjoyed this tiny little thing. Next chapter will be longer!**


	8. Author's Update

Author's update:

I will be putting this story on a hiatus for the time being. I'm not getting many reviews, lacking motivation to write it, and I feel as though my writing itself isn't coming out to be what I want it to. I have plenty of ideas for the story line, but I simply don't _want_ to write it. I have exams coming up, and then school ends for me. I'm not sure how many of you follow this story, but it'd be really nice if you could drop some encouraging words to help me when I return. Thank you all so much.

Also, I may or may not be conjuring up another fanfic in my mind. And it may or may not be Creek, and it may or may not be Tokeek. _BecauseIreallylovethesepairings_.

In the meantime, I'll be studying, reading, attempting to write and watching South Park. Hopefully my writer's block will end soon! I do think if I read more I can get some inspiration. Also, I'm taking modeling classes (Guess what I want to be?) so my schedule is packed, and my photography is taking up so much of my time. Again, I don't know how many of you are constant followers of my stories, but I want to thank each and every one of you who has read this and will continue to read my work.

Here's a small preview of something that I might be writing later. (Yes, it's Creek.)

_Everyone is wearing costumes and you feel like you missed the memo— you're wearing cat makeup. However, that guy over there isn't wearing anything, so maybe you should go dance with him. The low bass and somewhat intimidating, high-pitched, robotic voice coupled with the lyrics of 'putting the serum in your system' (maybe you should start on that) makes you grin while you make your way over to the male, naked as the day he was born. The song teaches the party-goers how to grind again, and you hope to some high deity that their rubbing, flammable, polyester material doesn't set poor you and the naked dude on fire. _

Thanks for all the support and love.


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